Stupid Meets Nazi
by lost0and0found
Summary: Paris Geller and Tristan Dugray started off as frenemies through friends to lovers and then back to friends. He asked her to wait for him. Meanwhile, life happens. Paris and Tristan - their story. An 'Adverse Events' Sequel.
1. When You're Ready

_Disclaimer_: _Nothing's mine. _

**A Long Author's Note: **

**Dear Reader,**

**This story started as Season 4 of my AU Lit fanfiction Adverse Events which basically revolves around the lives of Rory, Jess, Paris and Tristan as doctors. However, this particular story started as a sequel, but somehow strayed off the main road and into its own way, so it may well be a spin-off. It follows all the events that happened in the Adverse Events Trilogy AU, but is also somehow different because it starts with its own subplot and focuses mainly on Paris and Tristan's story. It features some Rory and Jess as well as some Lit moments, but it's honest to warn you that this is mainly a Paris/Tristan story. To everyone who is still reading and keeping up with this story and its characters - I hope you find as much inspiration into those future plot twists I have prepared for I did myself while thinking them over, because writing Paris and Tristan has become a major addiction. Here's the result - I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while creating this AU :)**

**PS:** I had the impulse to write this season in two plans - **THEN** (happening immediately where Season 3 left off) and **NOW** (happening two years later). So, welcome to the future where the characters have moved two years further with their lives, meaning Jess and Rory have been married for two years now and their daughter is a two-year old toddler, Josh is eight years old and Aiden is a teenager. I hope the time skip will work okay, because there will be a lot of THEN flashbacks where we see how some certain events led to other events etc. ... Ready for another ride? Well, here it goes...

* * *

**THEN **

**(Two Years Ago, the day after Jess and Rory's wedding)**

Shadows were running long in the quiet afternoon.

Doctor Paris Geller made her way out of the _Dragonfly Inn_ and stopped in the yard, letting the last mild rays of September sun warm her face.

'Are you stalking me, Dugray?' she asked without turning back to see who had approached her.

'Are you avoiding me, Geller?' Tristan's voice came behind her.

She shrugged, turning to face him. He was standing a couple of steps from her with his hands in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. Trying nonchalance wasn't something that generally worked but he was as close to looking the part as it got.

'If by avoiding you mean attending our best friends' wedding as the maid of honor where you were the best man then yeah, sure, I've been desperately avoiding you.'

His lips moved into a half-hearted smile.

'You're not making this any easier are you?'

'When have I ever made anything any easier?' Paris shook her head, looking at him inquiringly. The corners of his mouth turned further up and his smile became more genuine. Then his face morphed into awkwardness.

'About that dance,' he took a breath and let it out slowly, 'I don't think Kirk meant anything by the song.'

Paris arched her brows expectantly.

Tristan's eyes narrowed.

'Why are you looking at me like that,' he asked cautiously.

'Oh, I'm just waiting to see if you have anything else stupid to say,' she shrugged.

Tristan blinked.

Paris rolled her eyes.

'Of course Kirk didn't mean anything by the song, it's never been about a dance or a song and it surely has never been about Kirk. You couldn't have tried to look less relieved, could you?' she asked, her voice quickly switching from bitter to exasperated. 'I mean, it's not like I didn't know how this was gonna end,' she smiled a bitter self-deprecating smile. 'It was like watching a train wreck - you and me, what a joke... But I guess I was just too mesmerized to look away. However,' she lifted her chin with typical Paris determination, 'it's not like you gave me false hope or anything so keep the sappy apologizing at bay if you would.'

He watched her intently, his hands in fists into his pockets, making two steps towards her as he listened to her rant.

'Anyway,' Paris let out a frustrated sigh, 'I would appreciate it if you didn't look so damn relieved it's finally over. It's insolent and it's annoying.'

Tristan stopped right before her, his eyes set on hers. He took his hands out of his pockets and put them on both of her sides.

Paris narrowed her eyes, looking down at his hands on her shoulders.

'If you think you're about to console me, I'm about to kick you so hard, you'll have to spend the rest of the week with a pack of ice between your legs trying to get your testicles back from your inguinal canal. You hear me, Dugray? I'm pissed not sad, and when I'm pissed, I'm extremely wicked and I can kick so hard that all that pride you take in your genitalia will flatten into a painful mush against your pelvis.'

He ignored her comment and the chance to pick at her constant concern about his balls and stepped closer, drawing her in for a hug.

'I love you, shortcake,' he said, pressing his lips against her hair.

'Oh,' Paris huffed, hitting his chest with both of her palms. 'You do now, don't you?'  
She stepped out of his arms and started pacing, running both hands through her hair, lacing her palms against her forehead.

'Of course you would do that,' she scoffed. 'You would stall, you would run forever, you would swear you had not a single caveman cell in that golden jock body of yours and push and push me away, and then - just as I've finally accepted that I'll be denied all the manhandling goodness for life, you come and say something like that. Are you playing with me, Dugray?'

'No.'

'Are you making fun of me, because if you are I swear you will never be able to recollect your testicles from various parts of the world and if you ever eventually do manage to procreate, your grand-grandchildren will still suffer the limp.'

Tristan took a breath and stood straighter with his arms hanging by his side.

'I'm not making fun of you, Paris,' he said calmly.

'You're seriously acknowledging the fact that you are madly in love with me,' Paris narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

'Yes.'

'You're admitting to yourself and to the whole world that my soul excavation trip has hit a goldmine?'

'Yes.'

'And do you fancy telling me why, my dear friend, do you decide to profess your undying love for me?'

His mouth opened and then closed.

'Well?' Paris arched an eyebrow, folding both arms before her chest.

Tristan took a breath and looked to the side before he met her eyes again.

'Wait for me.'

'What?'

'Give me time to be everything I can be with you.'

While she imagined her look was incredulous, his was apprehensive, as if he were taking an enormous gamble. Tristan bit on his lower lip, keeping her look before standing taller and repeating,

'Wait for me.'

Paris blinked. Then blinked some more.

'I-' she swallowed, looking down and shaking her head once, her fervor down. 'I can't watch you with other women. I ... just can't.'

'I don't need other women, Paris,' Tristan smiled with what looked like relief. 'All I need is time.'

Paris folded her arms before her chest looking down, thinking. She thought about her own insecurities. About how her lack of bombshell potential had always made her self-conscious in his presence. How she always had felt the shadow of meeker women looming over her because they were easier to handle and she had always been high maintenance. And what he was asking from her. She was Paris Geller, dammit. If anyone could pull being Tristan Dugray's bestie until he figured out how to feel at ease with the amount of love he felt towards her despite his damaged childhood and the trauma his unfeeling mother had scarred him with, it was her.

'I hate how powerful your stupidity is,' she groaned. 'It's so powerful, it's contagious.'

She and Tristan Dugray. It was such a long shot. Such a long, long shot.

Paris lifted her chin, meeting Tristan's eyes square. If anyone wouldn't let their life be defined by what they _aren't_, it was her. She was no bombshell and she was not an agreeable person. She wasn't gonna spend the rest of her life regretting those.

She remembered an ICU room and the warmth of his hand against her as they pressed the respiratory support control down. She remembered how natural his words came out then.

'When you're ready.'

Because all one could hope for was to end with the right regrets. And for some twisted reason she wanted to be all of his what-if's.

* * *

**NOW**

**(Present Time)**

'What possessed you to take the boys to a sportswear outlet?'

'You see, I'm a _Nike_ person. Since a very fragile age, _Nike_ and me are like this,' Tristan clasped his hands together. 'And I needed the boys to serve as leverage.'

Paris rose a skeptical brow, folding her arms before her chest.

'Aiden is all _Adidas_,' Tristan explained, as if this was any explanation at all. 'I don't know how this happened,' he shook his head in exaggerated shock. 'Everything between us was going so well, and one day your own son, your own flesh and blood-'

'Huh,' Aiden huffed, rolling his eyes.

'He needed someone to slap the arms of handsy shop-assistants off. Like, I had to literally slap some hands off, given how eager they were to help him find the perfect fit. Next time you go buy yourself some pants, count me out of it. And since you'll be going without me, buy some pepper spray.'

Aiden went upstairs murmuring something about losing three hours of his life in a waste of energy and threatening eye stares.

Paris and Tristan watched him ascend the stairs, tilting their heads up. As soon as Aiden disappeared into Josh's room, Tristan turned towards Paris.

'See? It was urgent. I needed to intervene.'

'What's gotten into him?'

'No idea. Think his art project got turned down a couple of days before but anyway all he's doing these days is stay in his room and draw.'

'Tristan,' Paris put a palm over Tristan's shoulder, letting out a deep sigh. 'I think it's official.'

Tristan winced.

'He turned thirteen last month... Aiden has entered puberty,' Paris said somberly.

Tristan groaned.

'I've been dreading the day.'

'I'm sorry but you'll have to live with a teenager now.'

'Hey!' Tristan rose a point finger. 'I'm not the only one who's gonna suffer his irrational mood swings. If I'm gonna suffer, so are you.'

'You will handle him.'

'Like I handled him today. Sure.'

'Oh come on, you know he enjoyed it.'

'If by enjoy you mean grumbled all the time and threw angry looks at non-suspecting shop assistants, yeah, he enjoyed it immensely.'

'You're his dad, you know what's best for him even when he doesn't appreciate it.'

Tristan chuckled dryly.

'Yeah, I'm one of the best examples of fatherhood he's ever going to get.'

'You are.'

'Yeah. Okay.'

'You are.'

He blinked, seemingly amused by her growing fervor.

'Tell me, did you ever consider getting Aiden back?'

'Eh?.'

'Have you ever really considered not bothering to care for another man's child, sparing yourself the trouble and letting other people think about Aiden's future?'

Tristan's forehead furrowed in confusion.

'Why the hell would I do that?'

Paris shurgged.

'Because it's a burden that's potentially optional,' she reasoned.

'Ehm, I don't think I get where you're going with all that. It's about as optional as giving Josh for adoption.'

'Taking care for a kid takes a lot from you,' Paris insisted.

'Yeah. And gives you much more. Freely. It's the bargain of your life. Paris, what are you really trying to say? Are you elaborately mocking me?'

Did he constantly need to remind her he was too stupid for elaborate pranks?

'Doyle doesn't feel the need to be an everpresent father.'

Okay, so now Doyle was into this conversation too. Sure. Why not. The more, the merrier.

'It's different.'

'It's not, not really.'

'You're separated. Josh has you.'

'Doesn't mean he doesn't need a father though.'

'I'm all Aiden's got. And he's never given me trouble.'

'Yeah. Because you're a good father, Tristan,' Paris almost groaned, rolling her eyes at his stupidity. How come such a smug person turned all shy and modest when his fatherhood skills were being praised? She had no idea.

'Aiden's almost raising himself,' Tristan shrugged. 'See? I'm a very lazy father.'

'No you're not.'

Tristan let out a laugh.

'This conversation is growing suspiciously pro-me. I'm beginning to smell setup.'

'You're so oblivious, Dugray,' Paris sighed. 'Tell me one thing. Why did you go to work in a refugee camp in Turkey?'

He shrugged.

'I don't know, because world domination was the next best thing and it seemed like too much hard work to handle?'

Paris rose an eyebrow.

Tristan sighed with a weary smirk.

'I was offered the job, I took it. It wasn't a big deal.'

'It must have hardly been the first job you were offered. Yet, you got this one. Why?'

He rubbed his jaw with his thumb and forefinger.

'I... guess I saw it as a chance to free myself.'

'And you did this going into a dangerous and messy place to help people who might consciously or unconsciously harm you. Once you were done with your job, you came back bringing a boy you saved to bring up as your own son.'

'You make it sound like I'm some fucking war hero,' Tristan shook his head with a laugh.

'No. You're not a war hero. You're just a good man and a very good father, that's what you are. So can you finally admit to being great and accept that you deserve to be appreciated for it?'

'Are we talking some free personal appreciation? Because I'd like to let you appreciate me all night long and more, if you feel so inclined.'

'All you do is talk,' Paris shook her head with a laugh.

'Go out with me,' Tristan said, his eyes suddenly serious, his face apprehensive.

'What?.'

He licked a lip and took a breath, bracing himself.

'Go out with me,' he repeated.

'Like go out on the balcony?'

'Like go out on a date.'

'Are you crazy?'

'I don't care. Go out with me.'

'You just decided this now?'

'Actually, I've been thinking about it for the last three years but I feel like it's high time I did something about it.'

'Are you pranking me right now?' Paris looked around, growingly suspicious.

'I would never joke about something like that with you,' he said quietly and somehow she believed him.

Paris opened her mouth and then closed it. Seeing her confusion, Tristan made a step forward, flexing and unflexing his fists.

'You said when I'm ready,' he said. 'I'm ready.'

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Face The Music

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

* * *

**THEN**

**(Two Years Ago)**

'What am I waiting for exactly?'

Paris stopped and turned abruptly. Tristan, who had been closely following, had the common sense to stop and take a step back.

'Because I feel like you're just stringing me along and that's exactly what you promised you wouldn't be doing.'

Tristan opened his mouth to say something but Paris cut in, her fervor not nearly down. What the hell was she doing, waiting for the King of Chilton to come around and realize he was ready to love and be loved? They weren't some fucking fairytale. A joke. That's what they were. He had managed to turn her into a joke. She was making a fool of herself only so that Mr No Woman Could Ever Resist Me can feel good about himself. She licked a lip and ran a hand through her hair.

'I thought I could do this, rise above and let you run your game and really, who would've thought there was anything Paris Geller wasn't capable of achieving but here it is - congratulations Tristan, you just found the one thing I cannot do and it is watch you flirt with Miss FlimsyPants while I'm supposedly waiting for your proclamations of undying love waaay back into the friendzone.'

'What?' Tristan narrowed his eyes, waving his hand questioningly between himself and the nurses station.

The nurses station they had left behind along with the leggy intern who had been determinedly flirting with him. She was just the type. Young, fun and available. _Uncomplicated_. Everything Paris wasn't. Tristan was always gonna be crowded by women who were everything Paris Geller wasn't. Women who were ready to be his next mistake. He hadn't done anything - neither to encourage, nor to discourage her. And it probably looked like Paris was throwing a jealous fit. Well hell with it. Maybe she was.

They had gotten to the locker rooms and as they entered, he closed the door after himself so they didn't attract unwanted attention.

'Let me spell it out for you,' Paris glared at him, 'I'm done. So fuck you, Tristan,' she pointed a finger at his chest, 'I don't wanna play games anymore.' She took a breath and let it out quickly, 'So I'm done.'

She narrowed her eyes at the way the corners of his mouth turned up. Was he joking with her? Really? Did he really have the nerve to joke with her?.

'You're so strong sometimes it's easy to forget how vulnerable you actually are,' Tristan said calmly. 'I'm working to get to a place where I never forget that fact as well as many other facts about you. I don't expect you to wait for me.'

Paris opened her mouth to protest that he did actually ask her to wait for him, plain and clear, and that had happened over three freaking months ago, but Tristan rose a point finger and smiled.

'I do hope for it. I wish for it every day, but I don't expect you to do it. I really want you to be happy, Paris.'

Paris clenched her jaw, willing her anger to settle.

'You are so stupid, Tristan. So astonishingly stupid.'

He stuck both hands into his pockets and shrugged, rocking on his heels.

'Stupid is the new smart,' he gave her a wink.

Paris took a breath and averted her eyes to look through the window.

'I found a lump in my right breast,' she blurted.

Tristan's breathing halted behind her back. She didn't look at him, not needing to see any more concern than she already felt herself.

'When?' his voice came behind her, sounding gravelly.

'Yesterday.'

'Why... why didn't you tell me?'

'I'm telling you am I not?' she snapped.

Her eyes were still stubbornly fixed through the window, watching as the December wind picked a pile of leaves and swirled them into the air before they scattered back onto the ground.

'Take your scrubs top off.'

'Kinky timing, perv.' Paris deadpanned.

'Don't fuck with me, Paris,' Tristan's voice sounded dangerously low and serious. 'Take it off so I can examine you.'

She turned back looked at him through blurry eyes.

'I need you not to panic,' she whispered.

Tristan squeezed his jaw and with two strides he was standing before her.

'Come here,' he said, kissing the top of her head as he drew her into his arms. 'Let me put my filthy paws over your girls so I can call and schedule an ultrasound.'

She held on to the lapels of his white coat and took a steadying breath, her face still buried against his chest.

'It's gonna be okay,' he said into her hair, rubbing soothing circles around her back.

'Don't lie,' Paris chastised in a muffled voice.

'It's not a lie if I believe it,' Tristan locked his arms tighter around her.

* * *

**NOW**

**(Present Time)**

'I don't wanna confuse them.'

'Hey Paris,' Aiden padded into the kitchen barefoot, opening the fridge and leaning in to take a bottle of juice from the fridge door and drink.

'Glass, Aiden,' Tristan scolded.

Aiden only scoffed and padded out of the kitchen, rubbing his neck suppressing a yawn.

'He looked pretty good for a boy whose world just shattered into pieces, what do you think?' Tristan smirked.

Paris smacked his shoulder, narrowing her eyes in silent warning.

Okay, so the boy was practically in his mid-teens, he didn't really care if Paris actually spent the night in his father's bed or in the guest room. The boy was probably too busy despising the whole world and every single member of humanity to pay too much attention to detail. He was into his own world. A world of art, fast-approaching maturity and, probably, porn. Ugh. Paris shook her head.

* * *

**THEN**

**(Two Years Ago)**

Time to face the music.

'I don't want to look at that envelope.'

'Yes you do.'

'No I don't.' Paris moved her look from his face to the envelope he was holding out for her and then back to his eyes. 'You read it. Make it quick, so I won't have to stew in any more painful guessing. You don't even have to say it, I'll know the result by the look on your face.'

'That's bullshit, Paris,' Tristan shook his head with a small smile. 'You're brave. You're collected. Open the damn envelope and get this over with.'

'I hate you,' Paris let out a strained sigh, grabbing the envelope from his hand and tearing it open. Her eyes were still on Tristan, not moving to look at the contents of the envelope.

'We're Mulder and Scully, my friend,' he gave her an encouraging nod.

Her eyes narrowed in a 'what the fuck' look that only seemed to fuel Tristan's enthusiasm.

'Mulder and Scully, my friend. Mulder and Scully.'

She slipped the sheet of paper out of the envelope and read the results. Held her breath. Let it out. Put the sheet of paper back into the envelope and looked back at Tristan who was watching her with exaggerated calmness.

'I need to make an appointment with Bayer,' Paris said in her clipped business voice right before she turned and left the room.

Tristan stared after her, his eyes unblinking as he clenched his fists together, the pain in his molars screaming for him to stop clenching his jaw. Doctor Andreas Bayer was their best staff breast surgeon.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Those Hardest To Love Need It The Most

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

**A/N: A rather heavy but very essential for the plot chapter. I hope you feel everything I did while writing it.**

* * *

**THEN**

**(Two Years Earlier)**

'You shouldn't be here,' Paris looked around, picking at the leather of her armrest. By her side, Tristan was sitting with one arm thrown over the back of his chair, his feet leisurely stretched before him.

'I shouldn't have let you come,' Paris repeated, her hands clenching and unclenching into tight fists.

Tristan was sitting unperturbed, his eyes studying her through half-closed eyelids. He looked like a male cat stretched out in the sun, lazily following his prey with half-closed eyes.

'If you try and hold my hand, I'm gonna stick that iv pole down your throat,' Paris narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Tristan didn't make a move, didn't change his position, didn't even open his eyes fully. He simply stood, looking quite at ease with the atmosphere in the chemotherapy daily ward. He seemed calm and unperturbed. Darn, he seemed quietly amused.

'You're an inconsiderate jerk, Dugray,' Paris hissed, folding her arms before her chest condescendingly just as the nurse came towards them, carrying an iv drip.

As the nurse started the iv drip and left with the promise it would be about an hour during which Paris should by all means call if she needed anything, Paris followed the exit of the younger woman with her eyes.

'She has nice boobs,' Paris whispered, narrowing her eyes at the nurse's back.

'Nice ass, too,' Tristan responded without missing a beat, his eyes never leaving Paris'.

Paris licked her lips. Her lips were chapped and she made a face as her tongue caught on a scab.

'I think C-cups,' Paris said dryly, her enthusiasm obviously forced.

Tristan blinked, regarding her calmly.

'Definitely.'

Paris bit on the inside of her cheek and looked away.

'Fuck off, Dugray.'

They didn't exchange as much as another look until the end of the transfusion. Afterwards, Paris was a little wobbly on her feet and had to lean against the corridor wall for support as she made unsure steps towards the exit of the hospital. As if keeping an unvoiced promise, Tristan didn't once try to take her hand or support her.

Later in the car, when she felt her stomach lurch, Tristan pulled by the curb and waited for her to empty her lunch, leaning against the hood of the car. As she returned from the bushes, he silently handed her a water bottle. He didn't make any kind of comment as she went back to take her place in the passenger's seat and he took his place back behind the wheel, he just drove in silence the rest of the way.

As he pulled in the parking lot in front of her apartment building, he told her he was going to take Josh from school today and have him stay for a sleepover with him and Aiden. Paris didn't object. She didn't address the fact that she was probably not getting up from her bed for another sixteen hours anyway so yeah, he better take care of her son because she simply wasn't in the shape to do it herself. She didn't thank him for being there for her without making a fuss about it. She concentrated on her feet making step after step, willing her body to not look pathetic and make a spectacle of herself on the short walk to her apartment building, knowing Tristan was watching from the driver's seat, almost feeling his narrowed eyes on her back. Because sometimes focusing on not falling apart took all of your strength and everything else would somehow have to wait.

**THEN**

**One Month Later**

'What part of get out did you not understand?'

He kept his intent eyes on her and she closed hers, the attempts to get him to leave taking too much of her power. Through the last month, she had been feeling increasingly weak. Last week she took a leave from work because she couldn't keep standing up for more than ten minutes in a row even on the days without chemo. She had never in her life felt like this - physically weak, helpless, pathetic. It was unfamiliar and sent waves of nausea and anxiety throughout her body. Paris Geller was used to feeling neurotically healthy. Or healthily neurotic. Anyway, she was used to feeling the pressure of trying to outsmart time, to live a meaningful life as a mother and a doctor and balance everything out day for day. Lately, she wasn't sure what day of the week it was. She was constantly drowsy and nauseated. She felt a growing panic at the thought that maybe she wasn't ever gonna get better. Maybe she would never get back to taking care of her son without the need of her friends taking over errands all the time. And it had been only a month. What was her life gonna look another month down the line? She felt like a candle melting away, getting thinner and thinner.

'Can you get me papaya?' Paris said in half slumber. Her head was spinning and she felt dizzier than last time. They were almost done with the first course of chemo. Well, not them really. She. She was almost done with chemo. Dugray was simply... wandering around, failing to get lost despite her insistent attempts to make him do so. She had been moody. She had been sulky. She had been unbearable. She had been so bitchy, she would've given up on herself if she had any say in the matter. But Dugray was stupid. And stubborn. Consistently stupid, that's what he was. He didn't leave, insisting he would be accompanying her during chemo, proving God knows what. She couldn't fathom how he managed to arrange his working schedule so that he could be there each time. She suspected there had been some kind of talk with the Chief, with his old man's beliefs in justice and understanding. Dugray must have brought her case to him, the brilliant lady surgeon who was recently diagnosed with stage three breast cancer at such an young age, needing the support of friends because really, she had no family she could count on... She hated the sob story potential of her current situation. She had never in her life been a victim. She wasn't gonna start now.

She could feel Dugray's hesitation. She stood with her eyes closed because she felt like she was gonna puke all over him if she opened them, but she knew the way air electrified around Tristan when he was leading an internal debate. The reluctance he felt to leave her when he saw she was clearly unwell. The effort to talk himself into respecting her wish to be alone anyway. He was probably standing with his hands on his hips, licking a lip as his eyes studied her carefully. He was such a frustrating guy. Such a stupid, stubborn, frustrating guy.

She heard him let out a sigh as he finally made the decision.

'I'll be right back,' she heard him say, gritty concern making appearance in his voice.

_Don't_, Paris would have said had she any power left in her. Instead, she felt herself drift off to sleep, her muscles relaxing as soon as she heard the click of the hospital room door. It was so tiring to try and keep herself together only so that she didn't fall apart in front of him. So, so tiring.

'Okay, you're good to go now,' Paris heard the nurse's voice by her side, bringing her out of her slumber.

Paris opened her eyes with difficulty and as the room started spinning closed them again. She felt the deft hands of the nurse remove her iv line and place a strip of band aid over her forearm.

'I need to call a cab,' Paris mumbled, feeling for her mobile into her pocket.

'Oh, your friend is here,' the nurse informed cheerily. 'He said he would wait outside so he didn't disturb you,' she explained with clear adoration. 'He looks so...' the nurse paused, probably looking for the right word and let out a dreamy sigh.

If she didn't fear it would prompt her to puke, Paris would roll her eyes. Of course. Tristan Dugray, professional charmer and natural ovary-whisperer, he was the kind of guy who would always attract immeasurable amounts of female attention with his womanizer aura.

'Cute?' Paris delivered with what was a very washed away form of sarcasm in her voice. 'Handsome?' she continued. 'Chivalrous? A total babe?'

There was no response from the nurse so Paris opened her eyes and sized the other woman wearily.

The five-year survival rate for stage three of breast cancer was approximately 72 percent. 72 women out of 100 would be still alive five years from now. 28 wouldn't.

'You may ask him for his number,' Paris said with weak despise. Chemo was seriously eating on her mean vibe. But one needed energy to be spiteful and energy she had not.

The nurse blinked in confusion before her, and then shrugged with a small smile.

'I was going to say in love. He looks so in love with you,' the nurse said and with that left, somehow making Paris feel even worse than she already was.

As she went outside leaning against the wall for support and saw him tense, grinding his jaw she narrowed her eyes and stood straighter. Thankfully, he didn't try and touch her. She was really grateful. God, if he tried and held her up for support she thought she would die. And it wouldn't even be that much of a shock. After all, there was a twently-eight percent chance she would meet her impending demise anyway. This was by far the most humiliating position she had found herself in and if it got any more embarrassing than that she would rather die than imagine the mortification. However, thank God Dugray was wise enough to keep a respectful distance. Even as Paris tripped over the curb on their way towards the hospital parking lot, she managed to keep her balance and felt him take a step back as she hissed she was fine, dammit.

There was that quote by Socrates, that those hardest to love need it the most. And as far as Paris Geller knew from experience, sooner or later were given up on. It was just a matter of time. And right now, she wished he would give up on her sooner than later, because his love was a burden she felt too weak to carry on.

* * *

**TBC**


	4. Wearing YourDefenses Like They're Jewels

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

* * *

**NOW**

'Mmph,' Paris mumbled, settling her cheek more snugly against his chest.

'Paris, it's time,' Tristan said above her head, his voice still gravelly with withdrawing sleep. 'We have to get up.'

'Mmphmph,' she sighed, not making a move to get off him.

She called it the bear skin position. It basically consisted of her being draped over him. His heartbeat lulled her to sleep in no time and Tristan didn't seem to mind her weight over his chest, so it soon turned into her favorite position to sleep in. Paris suspected he used the opportunity to feel her up while she was asleep so it was basically a win-win situation.

'I know you wouldn't want to be late for Allie's birthday,' Tristan prodded.

'How are you always up so early? It's inhuman,' Paris groaned, burying her face into his neck.

'Military School,' Tristan chuckled, rubbing her back with one hand while checking the time on his phone with the other. 'Ah, shit, when did it become nine thirty?'

Paris' head shot up and in less than two seconds she was out of the bed, grabbing a towel on her way to the bathroom.

'We're late! It's Allie's birthday! We're late for our godchild's second birthday... why are you smirking?' Paris stopped midstep and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'What time is it really?'

'Quarter to six,' Tristan's smirk grew even wider.

'You sadistic, manipulative, cunning...' Paris started advancing towards him holding the towel before her as a weapon.

'Uh-huh,' Tristan rose a finger, getting out of the bed and stretching his arms behind his head. 'Hop in the shower and be quick,' he instructed.

'Why? You woke me so early I practically have enough time to soak in the shower until my skin peels off.'

'You have two minutes before I come in and pledge my allegiance,' he gave her a look that was a mixture of playful and heated and Paris decided it was literally in her best interest not to argue. After all, when the King of Chilton promised fun times, it had proven worth holding him to his promise.

* * *

**THEN**

'When is your surgery scheduled?'

Paris threw the elderly woman who was lying on the next bed a dispassionate look and arched an eyebrow at the woman's friendly smile. Did she give the impression she was here to make friends?. She was Paris Geller, she thought she oozed sass and unfriendliness everywhere she went. Why hadn't she pulled some strings and demanded a private room? Why? Now she had to ward off randomly befriending old ladies. Sheesh.

'You're young, that's why you're angry,' the woman reasoned wisely. 'With age comes acceptance. When I was younger I wasn't wise enough to accept the fact that all you can do is deal with the cards you're given. This your first surgery?'

Paris threw the woman a dirty look. Wrong thing to say, granny.

How come she hadn't stopped and thought about the fact that there might be more than one surgery? She was a goddamn surgeon, how had she not thought about that? How unprofessional was that? Only, she was a patient now. And she had been too busy puking her gut out, that's how she had missed that minor detail. Maybe she would have to have more parts cut out of her. Shit.

'My grandmother used to say this thing about coping with a hard situation,' the woman continued. 'She said, keep doing the tiny things. Wake up. Get up. Dress. Drink a coffee. Make soup. When a situation is scaring you because you have absolutely no control over it, keep doing the tiny things and one day you will be able to do something that feels bigger. My grandmother was a smart woman.'

And probably lived during the Paleocene, Paris begrudgingly thought.

'Do you mind if we don't talk?' Paris asked in a clipped no nonsense tone.

The woman paused, regarding Paris silently.

'No, dear,' she said. 'Of course not.'

* * *

**THEN **

**/Two Years Ago, Tristan's POV/**

I run. As soon as I start to feel exhaustion, I speed up. I run until exhaustion overwhelms me, until the quiet hum of adrenaline takes over and numbs every other thought. I run faster. I run until I can't.

I stop, hunching over with my hands on my knees. I think about calling in, going to the hospital to cover some clinic hours.

No shit. I'm in no condition to concentrate.

Okay then. I do what I do best. I will myself to stay put and start running again.

As I enter my condo I check my wrist watch. I have one hour before I have to take the boys from school. Paris insisted on them not knowing the date of the surgery. She had been honest with them about her diagnosis. She even opened a surgical atlas and showed them pictures of the surgery she would have to go through. When Aiden showed timid awe about the pictures and Josh was promptly apprehensive, she rolled her eyes and told them to grow the hell up. It was just a surgery and it would be over and done with in no time. She insisted she was doing the mature thing to be done in this situation and both boys went with the flow, deciding if Paris told them it would be okay, then it would be okay. When I asked her what the fuck later on, she hissed to me to mind my own business and let her do this her way. When I didn't buy her excuse of an explanation, she shrugged and said she couldn't enter the OR looking at Josh's face and I had to respect her decision. You have to suck it up, Dugray. That's what she told me. Suck it up I did. And now I had forty-five minutes to take a shower and put on a face before I take the boys from school, entertaining them with a random fun story until I get the call from the hospital that the surgery is over and everything has gone according to plan. It will. Go according to plan. It has to.

...

I enter the room, careful to be quiet in case she's still asleep. She looks up. As soon as she meets my eye she faces away, lifting her chin.

'I wanna be alone,' she tells the window.

I stay in place giving her an insistent look, willing her to look back.

'Really, Dugray, it's high time you learn to listen.'

I take a breath and let it out slowly.

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Too bad, because I want you to get out of here.'

I narrow my eyes.

'Do you, really?'

There is a challenging, stubborn vibe I let out in my voice. I'm feeling defiant of her privacy. Shit. This is not the time to start an argument. But I can't help myself. She's always pushing and pushing and this time I feel like pushing back.

'Yes I do.'

Of course it would only fuel her stubbornness. She's so unadapted to anyone being as stubborn as her.

'Why?'

'Because.'

'And you don't owe me an explanation,' I roll my eyes.

'I don't owe you anything,' she snaps.

A pause. I squeeze my jaw. She looks a little disappointed. Like she thinks I'm gonna give up at each next outburst. Like it takes so little to wear me down. Like she's expecting me to leave that room without a look back only because she's bitching at me every chance she gets.

'This is not about you owing me anything,' I sigh, running a hand through my hair and squeezing my nape. 'This is about me wanting to be here.'

I probably sound... weary. Deflated. I so don't wanna fight.

She narrows her eyes to the window, still refusing to look at me.

'Well, too bad I don't want you here.'

'Why?'

'Just get out already.'

Her voice cracks a little and that's how I know she's in a hurry to send me away before she breaks.

'Because you're vulnerable?'

'Because you suck.'

'You're hurting and you don't want me to witness that you're actually human.'

'Oh, now you're one to speak,' Paris shakes her head with a dry laugh, snapping her head to look me square in the eye.

Her eyes are blazing, molten with anger and hurt.

'That's interesting, given the fact how big you were on sharing and letting people in when you were out of your game yourself,' she scoffs. 'You shut me out, Tristan. You shut me out when I was there for you, you decided to keep me at an arm's length and wanted to wait instead of letting me be there for you because it kept you from getting hurt. You never really put your trust in me so don't you come pulling the best friend card on me, it's unbecoming. You're wearing your defenses like they're some precious jewels,' she motions towards me leaning forward in the bed, the bed cover sliding down to reveal her bandaged chest and right shoulder before she snatches it back up with her left hand. 'Like if you ever let someone in you'd have to have your soul skinned bare. You weren't ready to risk it then, so don't come asking me to risk it now just because you're feeling randomly heroic.'

I blink, my eyes keeping hers in an intense eye lock.

'God, I missed you,' I shake my head as a small smirk creeps up my lips. 'See you around, Geller.'

She watches with her lips pressed into a firm white line as I give her a short nod and leave the room, feeling her sass cool down and give way to wonder once I'm at the door. Just as I close it shut behind me, I catch a glimpse of her resting head back against the pillow, letting her eyes close.

* * *

**TBC**


	5. Like A Wounded Animal In A Cage

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything._

**A/N: An especially hard, emotionally heavy chapter to write. A lot longer this time and quite essential to the overall plot and the meaning of this story. I love those characters. So much. **

* * *

**THEN**

'How many more?'

'One. Two tops.'

Two more courses of chemo? She had barely survived the first one.

'Doctor Geller, you okay?' Dr Bayer asked, looking at her above his reading glasses.

'I...' Paris licked a lip and clenched her hands into tight little fists in her lap.

She had thought, she had foolishly thought, that after the surgery it would all be over. How stupid, how foolish it had been of her to hope. Utterly, totally unprofessional. Brilliant surgeons made for such pathetic patients.

'Yeah,' stood up, offering her hand to Dr Bayer for a handshake. 'Thank you, Dr Bayer.' She took a breath and braced herself. 'When am I scheduled to start?'

'How did it go?' Tristan jumped up from his seat in the waiting area as soon as she came out of Dr Bayer's office.

'Peachy,' Paris said through clenched teeth.

'What did the PET scan show?' Tristan insisted with annoying enthusiasm. He had been just as foolish and stupid as her, hoping it would all be over just like that.

'It showed that you're stupid and annoying,' she answered in stride, hurrying on her way out of the foyer and on to the parking lot, with Tristan following on her heel.

When she sensed he was no longer behind her she turned to find he had stopped in the middle of the clinic parking lot. He was staring at his feet, squeezing his jaw with his fist like someone had just punched him in the face. Bingo. He had realized what the PET scan really showed. He probably felt stupid and disappointed just like she did. That's why she didn't want him to come with her. People were no use accompanying you to the doctor's office if you were a single mom slash hardcore bitch slash lady surgeon rock star who had recently been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. Now she had to endure his disappointment in addition to her own.

After a minute Tristan lifted his head and caught up with her, his face clear of emotion. They resumed their walk to the car.

'When is the next course starting?' he asked.

'Tomorrow.'

His breath hitched for a second before he managed to cover his reaction with a carefree expression.

'Come on, let's go buy you a ton of ice-cream before you're back to puking all over the place.'

She considered snapping at him, telling him something offensive that she didn't really mean, but she bit on her tongue and nodded, following him into the Audi. At least he was making lame jokes about chemo, instead of trying to hold her hand or suggesting they went to seek second opinion or some other obnoxious shit like that. Tristan and his lame jokes. She could handle lame, as soon as he didn't turn into a total sap on her.

As they got out of the car and lined up in the ice cream parlor twenty minutes later she reminded herself that she had to remember and take every little step ahead. Step after step after step. She had to keep on going and beware not to trip over and fall. Because if she tripped and fell, she felt like she wasn't gonna be able to stand back up again. Ever. She had to be careful not to fall. If she fell, she wasn't getting up again.

* * *

**NOW**

'Sorry, I have to take this,' Tristan gave an apologetic smile and got out on the balcony, holding his phone to his ear.

Paris looked up from the dining table, her gaze following him on his way out to the balcony. As she met Josh's questioning look, she motioned for him to eat his dinner. She looked at Aiden who was immersed into painting on his tablet, a half-eaten dinner in the plate beside him.

...

'Other women,' Rory repeated.

Paris rolled her eyes, frustrated by her friend's dumbness.

'Yeah, Rory. Other women. Stupid women. Less difficult women. Amicable women.'

Rory shook her head slowly.

'Nope. Still doesn't ring a bell. Paris, what are you talking about?'

'What if he's simply addicted to chasing after women who try to discourage him, because he's not over the pathological bond he feels to his cold as a stone mother, the first woman who rejected him?'

Rory blinked.

'He's never chased after other women who reject him. Only you.'

'Duh, because no other woman rejected him.'

'He never chased after another woman period. Paris, where are you getting with that?' Rory asked, slightly exasperated.

'Almost every other woman is at least one boob ahead of me meaning I'll always be one boob behind,' Paris explained. Then clenched her teeth, looking away. 'Almost every other woman can offer him the one thing I never will.'

Rory blinked, even more at a loss.

'Two boobs?' she asked, confused.

Paris looked at her and the look in her eyes held so much hurt Rory bit her tongue.

'Simplicity,' Paris said quietly.

Rory opened her mouth to argue but then remembered her own feelings when she thought she was insufficient and inadequate, when she thought she wouldn't be able to offer Jess a family, when she believed what a terrible mom she would be. And it had been there - the feeling of confusion and inadequacy. The feeling had been so real, if all of her fears had been not. Her fears had been in her own head, but they had the power to bend reality into something it wasn't. They had that power because she had given it to them.

'Paris,' Rory said quietly, letting a small understanding smile graze her lips. 'Have you got any idea what human train wreck Tristan Dugray was when you fell apart during the postoperative chemo?'

'It was a dark time,' Paris shrugged, dismissing the subject.

Rory breathed, willing herself to stay put.

'He barely survived it, Paris,' Rory said with accusation in her tone.

'Well excuse me for the nuisance me having cancer must have been,' Paris rolled her eyes, frustrated.

'It's not about that, Paris,' Rory's voice rose and she took another steadying breath, calming herself. 'It's not about that at all,' she repeated, her voice almost a hiss now. 'He had to watch you fade away. At some point it was so bad, he was completely devastated but he had to stay put so you could lean on him. You needed him to pull you back together so he stayed. Everyone had the luxury to take a break and fall apart but him, Paris, because we all knew you needed him to keep you going,' Rory shook her head, helplessly spreading her hands to the side, her eyes welling up. 'You having cancer was never only about you, Paris,' she admitted and a fat tear rolled down her cheek before she wiped it with the back of her palm. 'We were all so scared. Cancer almost broke you but you have no idea what you breaking down was doing to Tristan. To all of us, but especially to him. You are our rock, Paris. Even when you're down and you're searching for your way, you're still our rock.'

Both women stood staring at each other, waiting for the emotion to settle. Then Rory stood up and gathered her purse and coat.

'So before you develop this scenario about Tristan and every other woman in the universe any further, can you do something for me? Next time you walk into the room and he's there, pay attention how he acts around you. Notice the way he looks at you, the way he changes when he's around you, really take notice, will you?'

Because other women stop existing when you're in the room, Rory thought. Symmetrical boobs stop existing when you're in the room. The world stops existing when you're in the room. If you only keep your eyes open, you must be able to see that. Because you've become Tristan Dugray's world.

With that, Rory shrugged her coat on and left, Paris' look following her on her way out.

* * *

**THEN**  
She fell over him, taking hold of his jacket sleeves but slipping anyway. When she felt his arms under her back and knees as he caught and lifted her, she didn't protest. She rested her head against his chest and let her body rest, calmed by the steady heartbeat against her ear. She felt herself drift off to sleep. She dreamed of sea and shore and sand. And sun. And a blue sky - so, so blue - the color of an eye.

As he put her down on her bed later on, their eyes met and Paris resisted the urge to avert her look.

'You know what the finest balance in nature is?' she asked faintly.

The blue in his eyes flashed and he sat down on the bed next to her, letting his fingers brush a stray hair from her forehead. It had started to fall down. Her hair. She had to shave it soon.

'The one of a snail moving along the edge of a sharp knife without getting cut. I was that snail and I lost my balance.'

He held her look, his fingers still grazing the remains of her hair. She had stood before the bathroom mirror this morning, studying her balding scalp, her overtly skinny and frail body, the scar in the place where her right breast used to be. She forced herself to inspect her appearance from head to toe before she averted her eyes and bit on her fist, knowing crying didn't change a fucking thing.

'I lost everything,' she admitted.

Tristan leaned down and touched his lips to her temple.

'At least you got to keep the better boob,' he whispered.

It made her shake with something between a laugh and a sob.

He pulled back enough to be able to face her. His fingers smoothed her hair back in a light caress and the tenderness in his eyes was unbearable.

'Have some rest. I'll be in the kitchen. Just... yell something obscene if you need me and I'll fly in coming to the rescue, all right?'

She didn't reply, squeezing her eyes shut, unable to prevent the wetness from rolling down her cheeks.

As she heard the bedroom door click, she let herself breathe, hearing a strangled sob tear from her throat, her own voice unfamiliar to her.

...

'You again.'

He had a pair of aviator shades on and looked all business, which was unusual for Tristan Dugray. He tossed her the key to the Audi on their way to the car. She caught it, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

'You're driving,' he informed her, taking the passenger seat.

She took a look at him and knew not to mess with him when he was obviously pissed. She fixed her beanie and started the car as Tristan sunk down into his seat, crossing his arms before his chest, hanging his head back.

'I'm sending Josh to Doyle's,' she said as they neared the hospital parking lot.

Tristan didn't respond, probably still dozing. She parked the car and prepared to get out as she heard his voice.

'For how long?'

She stopped and looked back at him. Tristan was sitting upward into the passenger seat and was looking at her through his aviators. Even through the dark glasses she could feel his look burning with a thousand unspoken questions. He hadn't been sleeping then.

'Until I'm done with chemo,' she said in a clipped tone. 'I'm in no condition to take care of-'

'Come live with me and Aiden,' he got out on an exhale. 'You and Josh, there's enough room.'

'No.'

'Why?' Tristan's voice was strained and she could see a muscle in his jaw tick.

She gave him an accusing look. He knew damn well why. She wasn't about to become a charity case. She wasn't going to let Josh get caught in the middle of any sappy drama that was on its way regarding her physical and lately, mental health. Josh had a father that could make himself useful in cases just like this one.

'Don't wait up, I'm taking a cab back home,' she said, tossing the car key over the dashboard in front of him as she opened the driver's door and got out of the car.

As soon as she made a step he was in her face, blocking her way. She let out an annoyed sigh.

'Spare yourself the speech,' she rolled her eyes. 'I'm late for chemo.'

He didn't budge as she pushed his chest and she opened her mouth to tell him to move, but he caught her hips between his palms and shoved her back, his mouth covering hers just as her back hit the driver's door. She would've pulled away but he was faster and caught her face between his palms as his lips worked hers, coaxing them to open letting his tongue in. If there was one thing that Tristan Dugray could fairly go down in history with, it was that single fact - he knew how to kiss. Especially when he was caught in a moment, he did things that turned you inside out in a matter of seconds. Paris breathed out and he breathed in. He didn't let her get away, instead taking over the kiss completely. It was messy and it was angry, and very, very overwhelming, like falling into the eye of a sea storm and feeling a mix of apprehension and awe. Paris felt her limbs go limp, going weightless as a hot wave rushed through her. She felt her heartbeat pick up, her breathing halted. She held onto the lapels of his jacket so hard, her knuckles went numb. Her ears were buzzing and for a moment she forgot where they were, she forgot who she was and even forgot who she had been lately - someone hurt and broken, missing half of their bosom and all of their hair. All she could do was feel.

When Tristan pulled back Paris registered at the back of her mind that his breath had tasted like yesterday scotch and asked herself how she hadn't thought to ask him if of all things he was hungover. The truth was, it seemed ridiculous. She hadn't seen the guy drink as much as finish a beer for as long as she'd known him.

He looked at her, still holding her face between his palms and even through his aviators she could tell his look was intense. His whole posture, the way he breathed, the way he held her face, it all bore so much hidden power, so much unvoiced thoughts. And so much restrain, she thought he was holding onto a thin thread and asked herself if it was finally about to snap. She could see her reflection in his shades. She looked breathless. And flushed. For God's sake, she looked so loved up, like some freaking lovesick puppy. This was ridiculous. It had to stop. Like, yesterday.

'You're still alive,' Tristan said, the words heavy in the air between them. 'Stop acting like that doesn't matter just because you fear surviving might not be enough.'

She blinked, watching as her reflection blinked back. Then took a breath, narrowed her eyes and jutted her chin forward, fixing her beanie low over her forehead.

'You're such a drama queen, Dugray,' she pushed at Tristan's chest, this time making him let go effectively. 'I'm late for chemo,' she huffed then, making her way past him, hating how much she hoped, how much she needed for him to follow.

...

'Oh boy, you do look like an ex-convict,' a familiar voice said to his left. Tristan turned to meet Rory's curious and slightly concerned gaze.

'Rory,' he ran a hand through his hair and down his nape, looking around.

His hair was longer than usual and impressively messy. It seemed like he had missed to crop it short a time or two. His jaw was scruffy, seemingly being shaved clean at some point since its owner decided he wasn't into grooming a beard anymore. That shave had been some time ago. Obviously. Tristan's eyes were bloodshot, wandering around, a pair of aviators hanging from the neck of his tee. Like a wounded animal in a cage Tristan Dugray looked restless, ready to crawl out of his skin. His eyes paused on Rory, then moved behind her, checking if she was alone. It was as if he expected Jess to appear somewhere behind her back.

'He's home with Allie,' Rory explained, reading his thoughts. 'Tristan, when is the last time you had some sleep?' she asked then, her eyes openly concerned.

Tristan rubbed his hand against his jaw ignoring her question, his brows furrowing in thought.

'What are you doing here?'

Rory bit on her lip pondering over the answer, looking slightly uncomfortable.

'Finally, you're here,' Paris' clipped voice came behind Tristan's back. She was standing next to her hospital room door and waved to Rory impatiently. 'Come on in.'

Then she turned towards Tristan.

'See?' she motioned towards Rory, 'She's here, you can go now.'

With that Paris disappeared back into her room.

Rory stepped towards Tristan and gave him a brief one-armed hug, whispering 'I got her' before she disappeared into Paris' room, leaving a flustered and profoundly disconcerted Tristan behind.

...

'Paris,' Rory tried for the fourth time.

Paris shook her head again.

'We're not talking about him.'

Rory tilted her head to the side and gave her friend a look.

'Don't look at me like that, we're not.'

'Paris,' Rory sighed for the fifth time.

Paris squeezed her jaw shut and a vein became visible on her temple. She stood up from the bed, her eyes firmly set on Rory's, the brown in Paris' eyes quickly deepening, her look more intense than Rory had ever seen it. She took her beanie off to reveal her shaved head. She had shaved the scarce remains of hair this morning, deciding it was time to accept the inevitable. Maybe, if she survived this, her hair would grow again. However, it wasn't happening any time soon, so she could as well shave the pathetic remains off.

Rory's eyes widened briefly but she gave Paris an imperceptible nod, silently telling her she agreed. It had been time.

Then Paris started unbuttoning her blouse. Rory narrowed her eyes. A muscle in Paris' jaw ticked but she didn't say a word. As she unbuttoned her blouse open and took it off, Rory felt her own eyes sting. She pressed her lips together, willing herself to be there for her best friend. As Paris took her bra off, revealing the scar from the surgery and the obvious void where once there was symmetry, Rory felt her lip quiver. A part of her best friend had to be cut off, so she could live. There were no guarantees she wouldn't have to have other parts of her cut off so she could live on. It was scary and it was real. Rory put a hand before her mouth, stifling a sob.

Both women stared into each other's eyes, sharing the loss.

'I'm scared out of my mind and I'm ashamed,' Paris paused to take a sharp breath. 'And I'm terrified how much I need him,' she admitted on an exhale, letting a single tear roll down her cheek.

They were doctors. They worked in a surgical ward, participating in surgery after surgery for as long as they could remember. Yet, nothing could prepare you for how you felt when you were on the other side. When you were the patient or their relative, things were painstakingly different.

Rory had meant to talk reason into Paris, tell her she was pushing too hard, fighting blindly against unknown enemies, fighting against wrong enemies in the first place. She didn't. She felt her friend's pain and confusion and she couldn't not understand. What Paris felt was fierce and overwhelming. It wasn't fair. It wasn't reasonable. But it was honest and it was real. Very, very real. There were probably better ways to handle a crisis than pushing people away. Come to think of it, there certainly were. But she wasn't there yet. Paris Geller was a fighter who had endured a heavy and unexpected blow. She deserved to be cut some darn slack.

...

'You need to call Tristan,' Rory said as soon as she walked into the living room, making Jess and Allie look up from their place on the carpet where she was crawling up his leg, giggling while he was holding a plush toy up over her head.

'I have never seen him like this,' Rory shook her head as she leaned to kiss Allie's hair and then left a peck on Jess' lips before she walked to the bar plot and poured herself a cup of coffee from the coffee jug.

'It's bad, Jess.'

'How is Paris?' Jess asked, his eyes matching Rory's concern.

'Physically she's holding on - barely but she is. However, emotionally,' Rory shook her head, 'she's falling apart and it's killing her to feel so vulnerable and insecure. I'm taking Allie to Paris' to play with Josh and we're gonna stay the night. I don't wanna leave her alone. That okay?'

'Sure. You go be with Paris, and I'll handle Dugray.'

'Jess, I've never seen him like this... He's been there for all of it, he's been taking everything in stride and was there for her even when we weren't.'

She stared at the coffee into her cup and let out a slow sigh.

'We have to step in, Jess. We've waited for too long. They're both breaking. He can't break now, she needs him to be solid and be there, although she's making his life living hell because of it.'

'Hey. Rory.'

She looked up, biting on her lower lip.

'We will get through this. They're not alone, we will help them get through this. Okay?'

She nodded, although the concern in her blue eyes lingered.

'Okay.'

...

'Dugray?.'

No answer.

'Come on, Tristan, I know you're in there.'

Nothing.

'Okay, don't mind me,' Jess sighed, 'I'll just sit down here.'

Nothing.

'Waiting at your doorstep like a random tramp.'

Still nothing.

'Maybe Aiden will come home at some point, eventually let me in so I can talk some sense into you.'

Okay, so Dugray was either not in there, or he was in no mood to chit-chat. Fair enough. If anyone could relate to keeping to yourself when things went to shit, it was Jess. He knew all about dark and twisty.

Jess sat down, resting his back against Tristan's door. He heard a muffled sound from the other side. It could be Tristan sliding his own back down the wall and sitting down. Or Jess could be imagining it. He sighed.

'She's the strongest person I know,' Jess said, his own voice sounding a little deeper than usual. 'But she can't save you this time.'

Jess rested his head back against the door and looked up at the ceiling before focusing back on the stairs.

'This time she is the one who needs saving.'

Jess looked down at his hands, hanging down between his bent knees where his elbows were resting.

'You need to pull it together and be there for her, man,' he sighed. 'She'll push you away with everything she's got because she'll hate how much she really needs you there, but you have to pull it together anyway because this time, she can't do this alone, you understand?'

Jess heard something inside break. Glass. Probably a glass tossed at the opposite wall. The thing was, he got it. He really did. It was the exact same reason why he let Rory go visit Paris at the hospital while he volunteered to stay home with Allie. It was because he was a coward and he didn't want to watch the strongest person he had ever known break. As simple as that. And if Jess himself felt so unwilling to watch Paris Geller break, he couldn't begin to imagine what it must be doing to Dugray.

* * *

**NOW**

'How did it go?' Jess looked up, leaving the book he'd been reading down on the coffee table.

Rory shrugged, then dropped on the sofa beside Jess.

'I yelled at her,' she admitted, deflated.

Jess rested back into the sofa and turned to look at her.

Rory let out a self-deprecating smile.

'I basically told her having cancer wasn't all about her and her taking up all the drama credit was such a selfish thing to do.'

Jess' brows arched up and he tried to suppress an amused smirk.

Rory swatted his shoulder weakly.

'It's not funny.'

'Actually, it kinda is.'

Rory groaned and lifted her palms covering her face.

'I'm a terrible friend.'

'Nah, you're not,' Jess' smile grew wider and he ruffled her hair before he threw an arm around her shoulders and drew her into his side, placing a kiss on top of her head.

'She thinks Tristan is seeing another woman,' Rory sighed, sounding baffled.

'What?.' Jess laughed. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'Jeez, chemo must've messed with her optical nerve,' he shook his head, still amused.

'I never thought I would feel protective of Dugray. Of all people.' Rory pondered.

'Huh,' Jess chuckled again. 'Me either.'

For a while they stood in contemplative silence.

'I would have yelled at her too,' Jess concluded after a while.

'Yeah,' Rory confirmed, settling more comfortably into his side and closing her eyes as he started drawing slow circles against her arm. 'I think you would.'

'Ma, Da, I'm 'wake!' Allie's voice came from the nursery.

'End of today's therapy session,' Rory sighed with a smile and placed a kiss on Jess' jaw before she stood up and went towards Allie's room.

* * *

**TBC**


	6. Because It Is She That I Have Sheltered

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The book quotes at the end of the chapter belong to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's 'The Little Prince'._**  
**

**A/N: I love this chapter. Hope it makes you love it too. Let me know how you felt :)**

* * *

**THEN**

****/Paris' POV/****

I toss and turn but can't fall asleep.

I stare at the wall.

I stare at the ceiling.

I blink.

I close my eyes.

Then open them again.

The feeling doesn't go away.

I shake my head and sit into the bed.

I reach for my phone on the night table and scroll through the albums until I find what I am looking for.

It was taken last summer, a couple of weeks after Allie was born.

Josh and his love for shooting random videos. I had told him I was deleting it later on. I hadn't.

It opens on Aiden sitting on a bench drawing a sketch. Josh moves the phone closer to Aiden's face until Aiden puts a palm over the camera muttering, _what's your problem, Josh_. There's Tristan's voice then as he jogs towards the boys kicking a football along, asking what's taking them so long. Josh makes a joke about Aiden and Aiden mutters something indescernible back. Josh stands up from the bench and joins Tristan on the grass. They're joking around playfully kicking the ball around and then Tristan kicks it towards Aiden so that it stops directly at his feet. Tristan and Josh start laughing hysterically and the camera starts moving jerkily as Aiden leaves his sketchbook to the side and starts running towards them with the ball. Josh runs towards me and hands me the phone, a short glimpse of me shaking my head before the video stops.

I close my eyes and there's silence.

I open my eyes to a hospital room and a bed, a pale female figure in a loose hospital gown lying helplessly on the bed, an iv drip attached to a central vein in her neck. A young boy is staying at the door, looking at the mother in the hospital bed. I can feel the boy's terror, his fear of the inevitable. Then the woman sits up in the bed, her orbs hollow, the dry pale skin stretched like parchment over her bones.

I sit in the bed with a start, my breathing erratic as I look around in the darkness. It takes me a while to realize I'm in my bedroom and not in a hospital bed. I rub a palm over my face. Then remember something. I unfold the bed cover, running towards Josh's room. I turn on the switch and his bed is empty, the way he left it last week when I sent him over to Doyle's. I lean over the door frame, resting my forehead against its cool surface and allow myself to breathe.

As I drag myself back into the bedroom, I open the wardrobe and look through the shelves until I find what I'm looking for. I take the tee out and put it on hastily, pretending not to sniff the cotton of its neck and sleeves as it rolls past my mid-thighs.

Then I lie back in my bed, pulling the cover up to my nose and debating whether to risk falling asleep again or simply sniff at the cotton of the worn Penguin Private _Immeasurably Cute_ T-shirt. I sit up in the bed and toss the cover away. I take the phone from my night stand and open Tristan's contact. My thumb pauses over his contact picture where he's holding a pack of mozzarella, his brows arched suggestively in a ridiculous attempt to provoke me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Bite on my lip as I will my left hand to feel the place where my right breast used to be, then lift it to touch my head, sliding it over my smooth scalp.

I squeeze my jaw and open my eyes, closing Tristan's contact, lying back in the bed holding the phone to my chest.

I open the video library, finding Josh's vid from the park. I replay it again and again until it's the only thing I'm able to see.

* * *

'I'm taking you boob hunting.'

I look up. He is here, clean-shaven and looking fresh as a cucumber. Tristan Dugray, back into his old sunny obnoxious self. And he's here.

To say I am surprised to see him would be an understatement. Last week I was so clear when I sent the message I didn't want him here, why does he keep showing up? It's been a week. A miserable, full of me checking my phone for unread messages and Rory telling me _Just call him already_ week. Any tall athletic guy on the street looks like him, every silly T-shirt with a cartoon character reminds me of him, mozzarella and Audi remind me of him. Jeez, _penguins_ remind me of him. And here he is standing right in front of me.

I curse the way her heart is doing the crazy dance inside my chest and my breathing pathetically halts. I'm not happy to see him. I unmistakably told him to leave me the hell alone last week. But he never listens. Why does he never listen? Because he's stupid, that's why. And I'm not happy to see him.

I brace myself and set my jaw firm.

'Don't you have anything more interesting to do than stalk people on their chemo?' I ask, hoping my voice doesn't betray how excited I am to see him. Right. Because I'm not happy to see him. I'm damn _ecstatic_ to see him. It has only been a week since I sent him away telling him Rory was accompanying me to chemo from now on. And I have missed him like a limb.

'And miss the chance to feel all new generations of silicone up?' he asks nonchalantly. 'No chance. We're celebrating your last chemo.' His brows furrow slightly, as if he remembers something. 'It's today, right?'

I nod. He looks relieved. Like he was afraid some other shitty thing could've happened in the span of last week. I know that feeling because I feel it all the time.

'To be honest, I expected you to be much more excited,' he says with newfound ease. 'It's your end of chemo party today, missy, show some damn appreciation,' he said with a poor attempt at scolding tone.

Jeez, his middle school spinster teacher tone sucked.

'You're so full of shit,' I say, unable to stop the smile from reaching my lips. Tristan and his lame jokes.

'I am. Come on, Geller, let's go grab those boobs.'

I cross my arms before my chest.

'Why would I want to grab any boobs?'

'Because it's therapeutic,' Tristan beams. 'Almost as good as mozarella. Come on, once you squeeze you won't regret it I promise.'

I stop and give him a look. His jokes are so lame. So incredibly lame. God, I've missed his lame jokes.

I can say something mean just to spite him. Nothing comes to mind but I can figure something out, I always do. Because that's what I do, I'm good at spiting people and lately I've outdone myself. So yeah, I can muster up some menace and send him away. The thing is, I don't want to. After everything we've been through, after everything I did to push him away he's still here and my heart is beating like crazy, cringing with unexpected relief. I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay, and as much as it scares the shit out of me, it's still the best feeling I've felt for a long, long time.

We are standing in the ward corridor staring at each other. Me looking at him through narrowed eyes and him standing a couple of feet from me, waiting for my decision, trying not to look apprehensive.

'I'm getting bigger ones.'

At first he doesn't seem to understand.

'What?.'

'If I'm making a fool of myself I'm gonna get some D-size boobs out of it.'

'What's wrong with your original size?'

'It's half the target,' I shrug, walking up to him and starting towards the parking lot.

'No it's not.'

'Now you're one to speak,' I roll my eyes.

He catches up with me just as we reach his Audi and out of nowhere he lifts a hand to put over my left breast, squeezing lightly.

'See?' he nods towards his palm still cupping my breast. 'Fits perfectly.'

I look down at his hand dispassionately and then take his wrist between my thumb and point finger prying it away.

'You don't get a say in this,' I state.

'I'm gonna save you, my darling,' Tristan whispers, leaning towards my left breast. 'I'm not gonna let Cruella do this to you, pinkie promise.'

'Oh please,' I roll my eyes getting into the passenger seat. 'I'm not Cruella. I don't even like fur.'

Tristan enters the car and starts the engine, giving me a curious sideways look.

'If your life was a movie, which one?'

'I don't know,' I sigh and rest back in the seat closing my eyes. Chemo makes me drowsy. I can't believe today was the end of the second course. 'Something played by Alicia Vikander,' I answer then.

'Because she played Tomb Raider?' There's a smile I can hear in his voice as he takes the turn out of the hospital parking lot.

'And won an Oscar,' I say with my eyes still shut.

'Yeah, that too. Minor detail that slipped my mind.'

I open my eyes to arch an eyebrow. He's killed the speed considerably, driving slower than the speed limit. He must have sensed I was nauseous.

He stops at a traffic light and he's eyeing me thoughtfully, seemingly considering something.

'She suits you,' he smiles. 'She's all poise and sass and layers of complicated.'

What? Who? Oh.

I narrow my eyes. Really? He shows up, out of nowhere, not mentioning a word about the way I treated him like trash last week, and if even I feel like someone deserves an apology, they most certainly do. He puts up the lame nonchalant facade because he knows it makes me more comfortable than his concern. God, if cancer doesn't kill me, his concern most certainly will. He even drives below the speed limit only so that I don't puke all over him. Well, that kinda makes sense but anyway. And now he's _complimenting_ me? Really? What's his game?

The traffic light switches to green and he starts the car again, looking ahead.

'Plus I'll be played by Fassbender,' he says.

'Uh-huh,' I shake my head. 'You're played by Justin Timberlake.'

'Excuse me?'

He looks really surprised.

'That's right, buddy.'

'Oh come on,' he groans. 'My years as a teen idol are long over.'

'Well so is the chance to build a more solid reputation,' I shrug.

We continue the rest of the drive exchanging witty banter and somehow, it almost feels like my life hasn't been falling apart.

Twenty minutes later we're sitting in the waiting area of the plastic surgery clinic, waiting for the receptionist to call my name for an appointment with Dr Barlow.

'Is this really the guy who's gonna pour femininity back into that lifeless body of mine?' I ask with an arched brow, nodding towards the big poster behind the receptionist desk. It showcases a middle-aged guy who looks like George Clooney displaying an annoyingly white set of teeth. It reads **_Dr Barlow, the plastic surgeon who made so many women happy. Symmetry is happiness._**

'Blame the advertising agency, not the doctor. I did some research. He is good.'

'Huh.'

We sit for a while, watching as people check in and out of the reception desk.

'I should've lived on the edge,' I say looking at a young girl walking in with a man who's old enough to be her dad. She's probably in her early twenties, looking like some glamour photography model.

Tristan narrows his eyes and turns his head to give me a look.

'Oh yeah?'

'Duh,' I rest back and cross my arms before my chest, closing my eyes because the nausea is back. I blame the expensive call girl lookalike at the reception desk. I hate how much I hope Tristan doesn't look her way. I hope his eyes don't linger on her long tan legs or her fit round ass. I honestly dread the moment when I'll catch him eye some smoking hot chick appreciatively. It makes me wanna scream. It makes me wanna yell at him to leave me the fuck alone. So I close my eyes and try to distract myself.

'I should've smoked pot,' I explain wisely. 'I should've gone to parties, went home with strangers and whored myself at least as much as you did,' I nod thoughtfully.

'What's wrong with your actual life so far?' he asks with what sounds like honest curiosity.

I open one eye and look at him as if he were asking whether the sky is blue.

I look back at the call girl and her daddy walking into one of the exam rooms. I hate her. She's young and healthy. I hate her with such vigor my sight goes blank for a moment.

'It's pathetic and boring, that's what,' I answer. 'I'm the epitome of predictable.'

'You are?' Tristan asks, sounding in equal amounts intrigued and amused.

I shrug.

'If I have to choose between right or wrong I'm gonna choose the right thing,' I explain. 'That's totally boring, don't you think?'

He blinks. Then he starts laughing. He's laughing so hard, his eyes start to water. Like sea water in the sun, his blue eyes are sparkling when he looks back at me.

'Do me a favor, Paris. Never change.'

The corners of his eyes are still crinkled with laughter and for a moment I can only stare at him, forgetting about my spite towards every young healthy human in the universe. For a moment I'm looking at someone who sees me at my worst and doesn't want to look away.

* * *

**NOW**

Rory tucked Allie in and sat by the bed, opening the book.

'I want the fox, mommy,' Allie said, her eyes focused on the book hungrily. 'Please, the fox!'

'It was then that the fox appeared,' Rory started reading.

Allie's face beamed with joy and she settled her palms under her cheek, listening intently.

**"Good morning," said the fox.**

**"Good morning," the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.**

**"I am right here," the voice said, "under the apple tree."**

**"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at."**

**"I am a fox," the fox said.**

**"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."**

**"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."**

**"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.**

**But, after some thought, he added:**

**"What does that mean-'tame'?"**

**"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"**

**"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean-'tame'?"**

**"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"**

**"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean-'tame'?"**

**"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."**

**"'To establish ties'?"**

**"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."**

**"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."**

Rory looked at her daughter's sleeping form and smiled. She left the book on the night stand and kissed Allie's head before standing up from the bed.

She gasped in surprise as she saw Jess standing at the door, a shoulder leaned against the door frame, his hands in his pockets and his feet crossed at the ankles.

They both smiled and he stood up straighter as she moved towards him, taking his hands out of his pockets to draw her into his side as they stood by the door, watching their daughter sleep with a peaceful smile on her face.

_..._

**"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you-the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is _my_ rose.**

**And he went back to meet the fox.**

**"Goodbye," he said.**

**"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."**

**"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.**

**"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."**

**"It is the time I have wasted for my rose-" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.**

**"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."**

**"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.**

* * *

**TBC**


	7. Hoping Those Fortune Fountains Work

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

**A/N: Been a while. Life got in the way. I've been thinking about this story though. A lot.**

** In this chapter, we're diving into Paris' head. Hope it keeps you tuned. ****Thanks to everyone who is still sticking up with those two and their journey :) **

* * *

**THEN **

Paris blinked into darkness, eyeing her mobile suspiciously.

**_I have nightmares._**

_Sent_

Not _Seen_. Yet.

She could remove it. Well, there would be a '_02:48, Paris Geller deleted a message_' report in its place then but oh well. Nah, removing it was even more embarrassing than leaving the actual message itself... right?. That's what social media did to people. Pathetic. Hilariously pathetic.

Paris threw her mobile a last condescending look before tossing it to the side and turning into the bed, her eyes closing into sleeplessness.

She recognized his footsteps even before she opened her eyes. There was a lightness to his gait, the natural grace those all around athletes possessed, making them move with some innate casualness floating through space without bumping into stuff or making floors squeak. Sometimes she wished she could float through life like that, but instead she bumped into people, bending and breaking them in the way. Creating dents in everything she touched.

He had switched the light in the corridor on but other than that the apartment was dark.

Paris squinted at his outline lit by the light coming from the corridor. The image squeezed in through the half-open door of her bedroom and past her resolve to smother any kind of vulnerability in its wake. The image brought hope. Her heart was in her throat.

'How did you get in?'

'I got keys, remember?'

Oh. Keys. He got keys. The set she gave him a thousand years ago so that he could use them in case he got the boys from school. She had a set of keys to his condo herself. Not that she used them anymore. How did she not remember to get her keys back?

Tristan walked in, closing the door after himself. She heard him kick his shoes to the side making his way to her bed.

Paris thought of asking him what he was doing but it was so obvious he'd gotten her text and came flying to the rescue, it would be pretty hypocritical of her to play dumb.

'Go home, Dugray,' she said evenly, scrambling her brain for an excuse that could justify her irrational behavior.

She heard him sigh.

Suspiciously, she eyed his now dark outline as he came to sit and then lay down on the bed beside her without touching, folding both of his arms under his head.

He didn't try to establish eye contact. Didn't study her features. Didn't start a conversation. Just lay there looking up at the ceiling, as if he hadn't just walked into her apartment in the middle of the night.

Paris sat up. Straightening, trying to look more indignant than she truly felt. Because come on, she had texted him, hadn't she? Yes she had. And she had so wanted him to come and be there for her. If only she could let him. Oh crap.

With the streetlights being the only light the otherwise dim room, his face looked even more calm and serious than she remembered seeing it a couple of days ago when she was discharged from the plastic surgery clinic and he gave her a ride home. Tristan Dugray, Paris Geller's designated chauffeur.

'Go home, Tristan,' she said more forcefully.

Like an ill-fitting set of clothing, his seriousness felt unbecoming, out of place over that handsome poster boy face. She knew him now, knew him well enough to be aware that his careless exterior was a choreographed charade, a distraction to hide scars he didn't want people to know even existed. Tristan Dugray had learned to use hilarity to sidestep sadness. His eye candy exterior served him well, hiding those layers he hid underneath without rising doubt. And even though it wasn't everything he was, the shiny, goofy man-child persona who used lame jokes to placate seriousness, had become an essential part of his true self anyway. And even when she knew it was just a comfortable mask, the lightness, the carelessness of his womanizer bravado had been a tool to make things easier, steering them away from unnecessary melodrama. But lately he had become that other person. Serious, thoughtful and maybe a little sad. Bypassing chances to slip in a lame joke. As if the deeper layers had rearranged, replacing the sunshine-rainbow surface. Everything looked upside down. Having your best friend diagnosed with stage three cancer probably did that to you. Even if you were the one and only Tristan Dugray. Maybe it turned him inside out, the same way it did her.

'Or?' Tristan turned his head on the pillow to look at her.

What? Ah, right. She had told him to go home. To go home so she could gather her bearings and return to her normal bulletproof self or... or what, exactly?

_Or I will make you_, she thought of saying. Her lips moved but the only thing that came out was,

'Or never leave.'

It came out weak and vulnerable and as soon as they were out, Paris wanted to get the words back. It was too late to take anything back now, so at least she kept her mouth shut to prevent herself from saying anything that would only embarrass her further.

Tristan looked at her in the semi-darkness, his calm blue eyes focused and unrevealing. Then, without any display of physical effort or emotional turmoil whatsoever, he got up.

Idly, Paris watched him move in the semi-darkness. _Finally. _Somehow, it was the only coherent thought she could form.

Without turning to spare her another look he took his set of keys out of his pocket to leave on the nightstand.

The moment he gave up.

_ So, that's how it looks. No fanfares, no violins._

Paris didn't know what she'd expected, but now as she watched him prepare to leave she realized she didn't feel a single ounce of relief. She wouldn't call it disappointment either. After all, she had forced him, literally forced him to get to this point. The point where everybody left. Because everybody had a breaking point. If pushed hard enough, people broke. She had done it with Doyle. She had kind of started doing it with Josh too. But she had absolutely outdone herself with Tristan.

The thing was, she was damn good at it. After all, it had become what she did - she drew people away. Because when it came to choosing between watching them break or watching herself break, she always chose herself over them. She would always choose her dignity over accepting people's kindness because it was simply who she was.

She remembered that day, almost three years ago, when she took her wedding band to a jewelry store. She could still picture the shop assistant's face. The girl was in her early twenties at best, life and disappointment still fresh before her. The look she gave Paris when Paris told her she wanted her lucky scalpel gilded, tossing said scalpel on the table right next to her wedding band was one of utter confusion. Paris could've put a gun next to her ring, saying she wanted a bullet made out of it so she could aim a better shot. The symbol of a commitment she had believed she had made for life was all but a couple grams of yellow metal. It wasn't that she couldn't fight for Doyle if she tried. She could. She just had the mercy to let the poor guy go. Living with her was no walk in the park and she knew it. She knew it damn well from the very start. She just had hoped Doyle had known it too.

Look, Dugray had been something else. He had been much more resilient than she gave him credit for. Yet, he was only human - that's the cliche people used in such cases, right? He was only human and she had been her worst with him. Jeez, she would miss his dorky face.

So this was it? No heartfelt farewells, no dramatic effects. Only a pathetic woman in a semi-dark room and Tristan Dugray... undressing.

What the... He'd thrown his hoodie and T-shirt over the back of the desk chair and was currently unbuckling his belt. When he was only in a pair of briefs he climbed into the bed, throwing the cover over both of them, moving to spoon Paris' side, tucking her head under his chin.

Paris squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to breathe. She was as close to hyperventilating as it got. Then, taking a gulp of air, she spilled on an exhale,

'Can I touch you?'

The question was ridiculous, given he was practically embracing her.

'In a non-creepy, non-objectifying way,' she added quickly before her stupidity lost momentum.

She lay motionless, biting on her tongue for not keeping her mouth shut. As if pretending she wasn't there could make her actually disappear.

There was a short pause during which Tristan was probably replaying her words in his head. But then he moved. He shifted into the bed, laying on his back, his arms leisurely resting by his sides. He could have been lying into his own bed without anybody else in the room and to an outside observer it would've seemed all the same. But in fact he was removing his touch from her so she could call the shots.

_Okay. All right._

Breathe. Just fucking breathe.

Paris sat up in the bed, feeling his eyes on her as she fought to keep a cool composure.

He was calm, collected. Patient and unrushed.

And she was awkwardly, dorkily nervous. His calmness ate at her nerves even more.

She licked a lip in apprehension and wondered if this was all a mistake. She could still call the whole tete-a-tete off. The thing was, she needed to... connect. Make contact. Human contact had always been something she didn't deem necessary. Throughout Paris Geller's conscious life, human touch had been a nuisance, awkward receptor exchange she never thought would find to be worth missing. However, after she got diagnosed, her perspective on life and her own body started to change. She closed herself in. Really, truly clammed in. She didn't want to use the kindness of the people around her to placate the harsh reality of the situation. And it dawned on her that, despite her neglect for any acts of closeness, she had had warmth in her life. Before she got diagnosed, she had somehow, although involuntarily and rather reluctantly, participated in human kindness exchange. In her own brusque and harshly honest way, she had let people in. Until she didn't. It took pushing everyone, even her seven-year old son away, to realize just how much she got to lose. And now, months into her self-imposed isolation she felt so bleak, so hollow inside. In her mind, she pictured herself like an enormous black hole, a pulsing hurting void that took everything up.

She had to do it though. She had to let the ones she loved loose, so she didn't have to face her own fears in their eyes. As if her own fears were not enough, every time she looked at her friends and her son's face, she had to face their own fears, and the burden of that suffocated her with its excruciating weight. Because what if that was what her life was gonna be from now on? This lingering on the verge of existence, the pathetic struggle to stay alive and fear letting hope in because there was a good chance hope went against all odds? What if every new day began the same way, calculating her chances to get out of this alive? Losing her dignity on the way. Losing her sass and her self worth. Losing herself piece by piece, with everyone that ever mattered to her watching in the process. She couldn't do it. She simply... couldn't. So she sent her own son away. Whenever she doubted the ground reasoning behind that particular decision, she reminded herself to remember the chair.

_Remember the chair._

She had a chair in her bathroom. Sometimes she felt so weak and dizzy, she needed to sit down and get some rest in the middle of a shower. There was that one time the water had run cold and she still couldn't get up from that chair, so she reached over and turned the tap off, waiting for the feeling of the ground shaking beneath her feet to go away. She had thrown the bathrobe over herself in order not to tremble but her teeth were chattering anyway. And she waited. And waited. That afternoon, Josh had walked into the bathroom, probably misled by the absence of noise inside. She remembered the look on his face when he saw her. Jesus, it felt heart-breaking the way he registered her pathetic shivering form and the way realization hit quickly. He was such a smart boy. Had a quick mind. Paris had opened her mouth to say she was okay, to lie to him and distract him with some out of place sarcastic joke, but Josh had been faster. He moved quickly, efficiently, helping her stand up from the chair, getting her to lean on him so that he could take her to her bedroom and put her to bed. Her seven year old son had to support his own mother so she could reach from her bathroom to her bed. Since that one time, she knew things had to change. The same afternoon she had Josh's trip to California arranged. **  
**

Rory and Jess had been easier to handle. They were so busy balancing work and parenthood, so distracted by the rapid changes in their lives as the parents of a lively baby girl, Paris didn't have to particularly push them away. It was enough to just insist she got everything she needed every time they offered to help and they seemed to concede.

Dugray, however, had been something else. Maybe he didn't have anything else up his own social agenda. Or maybe he felt some strange sort of obligation to her because he had been there when she got the news, reading the biopsy results. Whatever the reason, he had stayed. He had stayed - always there, patiently waiting for her to get better or get worse, whichever came first, because he intuitively felt that's when she would need him the most. Diligently waiting for the moment to step in. And just that knowledge, that simple knowledge, keeping in mind that someone was waiting at that other side of the tunnel, had been the force to pull her through.

She had pushed him away for so long, it had hurt her just as much as it had him. She wanted to be that person who was strong enough to rebuild themselves after the wreck. She wanted to be able to do that. To heal.

Paris took another look at him. The composed, stoic face of the boy who had gone through military school and worked in a refugee camp. The leisurely manner of his right arm folded under his head as he regarded her calmly, the former King of Chilton looking at his best friend.

He felt... safe. Like he wouldn't judge. Like he wouldn't attack. Or fleet. Or budge. He'd never hurt her, at least not intentionally. It was her thing. She had always been the one hurting people, if even she ended up hurting herself in the process.

Slowly, as if giving herself a last chance to back off, she lifted her hand. His eyes were following her as she touched her palm to his cheek. He was warm. His cheek was slightly stubbly with five-a-clock shadow. He felt warm and safe and... alive. She didn't move and neither did he, her palm resting against his face.

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, careful not to let the moment overwhelm her. Somehow, it was almost too much. She had kept to herself for so long, so reaching out to him now felt a lot like drowning.

She slid the tips of her fingers down the side of his neck. His neck felt strong. Solid. In that way all around athletes' muscles felt. Like they could endure anything, get through anything and then still end up safe and sound.

Paris paused her hand against his chest, her palm smoothing over the place where she felt his heartbeat. He was warm there too, exuding life and strength. She closed her eyes. When she felt a touch she opened them to see Tristan had lifted a hand to wipe a thumb against her wet cheek.

She stared at her palm, still resting against his chest.

'Can I?' she asked.

He gave her a slight nod and she moved to lie down putting her ear next to her palm, listening. And this officially became her favorite sound in the world.

'You are so warm,' she uttered, her voice full of wonder. 'So alive.'

Tristan put his arms around her, letting a breath in a long exhale.

'So are you, Paris,' he whispered. There was a sadness in his voice when he repeated, even more quietly, 'So are you.'

'Why are you sad?' she lifted her head, searching his eyes.

'Because you gave up.'

'On what?'

He shrugged while keeping his arms around her. A small smile played over his lips but his eyes stood sad.

'On being happy about staying alive.'

Paris pressed her lips together, feeling a wave of shivers down her spine.

'I never gave up on you,' she admitted, her voice sounding childishly apologetic. Then, after a pause, 'I treated you badly,' she said.

His breathing was even, his heartbeat a stable rhythm under her ear. She wanted this moment to last. At least for a while, she wanted it to last. Lately, not a single feeling of comfort stayed around, but this moment, and the sound of his heartbeat under her ear, were as close to comfort as it got.

'It's okay,' he said and his voice was a deep timbre, resonating in his chest.

He had forgiven her. Stupid, generous man.

'It's not,' Paris sighed. 'I've been terrible to you.'

'You had a bad hair day,' Tristan joked half-heartedly.

'Just one?' she tried to joke back. It came out dry.

'A couple. More like... a bad hair couple of months.'

There was a smile in his voice and she pressed her cheek to his chest more snugly.

'It wasn't right of me to punish you for trying to be there for me,' she said and her voice sounded so timid, that apologetic ten-year old version of herself making appearance again.

He moved a hand, only the tips of his fingers sliding from her nape down along her spine through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. It was a subtle caress but strangely comforting. She appreciated he didn't touch her head. Hadn't since she'd shaved it. He must have figured it made her uncomfortable. Who would have thought that teenage heartthrobs could make for such intuitive best friends?

Paris took a breath, trying to calm her nerves and sound like herself again.

'You've been a good friend, Dugray,' she let out on an exhale. 'And so far, I survived cancer,' she continued, trying to continue on a lighter note. It came out breathy and nervous. 'So I may as well own it and stop bitching at you for looking gorgeous and having to shave all those excessive amounts of facial hair off your face.'

She trusted him. Although she'd had a terrible way of showing it lately, she did trust him. Besides Rory, no one had seen the scars of her surgery.

She moved to sit up in the bed, holding his gaze as she gripped at the ends of her T-shirt, held her breath and lifted it up over her head in one short move, so that she didn't have time to change her mind. Tristan sat up in the bed too, placing his hands gently on her hips, leaning in to her, covering her chest with his own like a protective shield.

Paris' pulse picked up and blood rushed to her face as she felt his breath fanning her cheek. Then her eyes caught on something. Her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She saw herself, and it was a distorted version of her she saw. Her eyes black and hollow, like two bottomless holes. Her chest was edgy and bony, her skin looking thin as it stretched over her skinny bones. Her hands over his back had long, sharp claws that had left deep, ugly cuts. He was bleeding. She thought of checking and dressing the wounds, of saying she was sorry but suddenly her reflection opened her enormous, black mouth, revealing a set of ugly sharp teeth, and swallowed everything to black.

Paris woke with a start. She was sitting in her bed gripping at the sheets, her wet T-shirt sticking to her back. Her throat felt dry and sore and she supposed she had let out a scream.

She looked around, disoriented. She was in her bedroom, sitting up in her bed. She looked at the wardrobe mirror, seeing her reflection - the reflection of a scared woman with her head growing just enough hair to look like a semblance of a short haircut, her eyes wide with terror but certainly not hollow. She lifted both her hands to inspect and then looked back at her reflection in the mirror. The image from her nightmare flashed in her mind, just for a split second, and the feeling made her stomach lurch. She touched her head, the feeling of the short spiky tresses bringing an unlikely comfort. She switched her night lamp on and leaned over her knees, resting her head between her elbows, taking small measured breaths as she willed herself to get it the fuck together.

_It was a nightmare_, she said out loud.

_It was just a nightmare_, she repeated, trying to convince herself.

She waited until her breathing normalized and then got up, threw a hoodie and a pair of jeans and sneakers on and went out. The early spring air was still crisp, the edge of winter still lingering. Paris walked with her arms crossed, hands tucked into her armpits. It was still dark outside, since it was somewhere between three and four in the morning.

As she reached her destination she paused, eyeing the little fountain suspiciously. She stepped from foot to foot, trying to warm herself. Then took a coin out of her jeans pocket, crouched by the fountain and squeezed the coin between her thumb and point finger, putting it before her lips. She took a sharp breath in, touched her lips to the coin and squeezed her eyes shut before tossing it into the fountain. It fell down into the water with a quick splash. Paris stood for a moment, watching as the coin sunk down to the bottom of the fountain, reflecting the shine of the fountain's decorative lighting, and repeated her wish. Then she stood up and went back home, hoping that those fortune fountains worked.

Three hours later, she sent a message to the contact subscribed under _Shania_ in her phone.

**_I'm coming back to work._**

* * *

**TBC**


	8. Healing Is Not A Linear Process

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

* * *

**THEN **

Dr Paris Geller stood before _St Morrison_'s surgical schedule with hands stuck deep into her scrubs pockets. She read the names of the surgeons. She read the names of the procedures. Furrowed her brows. Stared at the schedule. Then reread it again.

'You memorized it the first time you read it,' a low timbre sounded from her right.

She turned. Jess was standing beside her. His arms were folded before his chest and he was seemingly studying the surgical schedule.

'It doesn't get easier,' he said knowingly, his eyes still focused ahead. 'Not until you do it.'

When Paris' eyes widened, he let out a small smile and turned to face her.

'When I got back after the shooting and the bullet was out,' Jess explained. 'It took me a while to feel like I was still myself, despite everything that had happened.'

Paris pressed her lips. She felt like a hostage in her own body. A body that had gone through more than a few tough battles. Battles she never chose to have but had to, anyway. And she was now locked within this weak, frail shell of a body that had survived so much, yet was still searching for its own ways to heal. And she knew she needed to get back to work if she ever wanted to feel normal again. And she wanted it. She wanted to get back in the game she had been so good at. The thing was, she didn't know how far she could go into a surgery without feeling her feet give in. If the nausea would kick in again. If she would feel her insides turn inside out at the sight of flesh being cut through. Sheesh. This was so unlike her. She used to love the smell of the cautery pencil against flesh, because it was part of her job and she was damn good at said job. At least she used to be. It had been a month since her last chemo and she was doing all right, but she was nowhere near her previous high functioning self.

'It won't go away unless you make it,' Jess' voice sounded beside her. 'Stop fussing and pick a surgery to scrub in.' With that, he gave her a knowing nod and patted her shoulder before he continued on his way to the OR.

Paris turned to look at the schedule again. She felt her head spin. Her arms were sweating, shaking slightly. She felt like she was gonna be sick.

The nausea. The dizziness. It was all so familiar.

'Hey,' Rory came to stand beside her. 'Welcome back,' she bumped her hip against Paris' side, giving her a joyful beam.

'Thanks,' Paris forced a smile.

'You okay?' Rory narrowed her eyes, looking between Paris and the surgical schedule.

'Yeah. Just talking a moment before I dive in.'

'Do you need an intervention?' Rory asked. 'Anything from emotional aikido to dried papaya, you've got it.'

Paris held her gaze, her smile turning genuine.

'Yeah,' she nodded. 'I know. Thank you.'

'You sure?'

'I'll just...' Paris made an indefinite gesture around, 'I'll take my time.'

Rory chewed on her lower lip, hesitating between leaving and staying. She had made a couple of steps when she paused.

'You know, healing...' Rory paused, giving a shrug. 'It's not a linear process.' She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking for the right words. 'They tell you it's step after step after step,' she started, 'But sometimes you have to take the same step - over and over again, until you start feeling like it's even barely making a difference.'

Paris held her friend's gaze and nodded once, not trusting her voice to speak.

Rory gave her an encouraging smile.

'It will start feeling easier. I promise.'

Paris hoped so. God, how she hoped so.

'What are you doing?'

Paris let out a slow exhale, not moving her gaze from the schedule.

'What does it look like?'

'Looks like you're choosing your first surgery to ace for your grand return.'

She let out a huff.

'Why are you asking then?'

'Because you've been standing before that schedule for fifteen minutes and haven't once moved.'

Paris turned to give him an indignant look.

'Are you spying on me?'

'No.'

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

'Are you following me so you make sure I won't trip and fall on my way towards the OR?'

'What?.'

She looked back at the schedule, satisfied with Tristan's answer enough to not feel the need to dig any further.

'I, ehm, got you something,' Tristan said then, sounding a bit embarrassed. He ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his neck once. 'Here,' he took something out of his scrubs pocket and put it into Paris' hand. A miniature textile gift bag. It felt light against her palm.

'I'm not scrubbing in,' Paris said not looking away from the schedule.

'What?.'

'I'm not.'

Tristan inhaled sharply, his posture tensing immediately.

'You can't be serious.'

'I'm not ready,' Paris replied evenly.

'My ass you're not ready,' Tristan huffed, getting more wound up by the second, 'You're Paris Geller, you were born ready. What is this really about?'

'I'm not scrubbing in today Tristan, so you better chalk it up and stop making a fuss about it,' Paris said with the same even tone, as if she had expected him to react just the way he did.

Tristan's nostrils flared. Actually flared.

'Why?'

Paris swallowed and let her eyes skim over the names of the surgical procedures and doctors once again.

'I told you, I'm not ready,' she repeated.

'But you'll be ready tomorrow?' he asked, his voice oozing with disbelief as he moved to stand before her, his tall frame hiding the schedule from her eyes.

Paris let out a weary sigh.

'I don't know.'

'What about next week?' Tristan pressed, lowering his head so that they were closer to an eye level and she didn't have a choice but to meet his look. 'Will you be ready next week?'

'I don't know!' Paris rose her voice.

'What are you afraid is gonna happen?' Tristan didn't budge.

'Nothing,' Paris said between her teeth.

He narrowed his eyes, the blue of his orbs shooting daggers.

'Paris, don't fuck with me.'

'Stop pressuring me,' Paris jutted her chin.

'Why?' he asked. 'Because it's your thing? Are you the only one who's entitled to go around pressuring people?' Tristan's voice suddenly got lower. 'Are you having symptoms again? Are you feeling nauseous?'

'No, not really. It's...' she took a breath and looked to the side before her gaze met his again. 'It's nerves, okay? I'm not in my top shape, and maybe it's better if I take some clinic hours first before I ease back into my previous work.'

'Shut up,' Tristan snapped, his voice rising a notch. 'Just... shut up.'

Paris stilled with her mouth open, looking at him with her eyes wide.

'Stop saying nonsense and just shut it for once,' Tristan turned to her, his eyes blazing with unequivocal anger. He leaned forward so he was hovering over her and took hold of both sides of her head between his palms, making her face him.

She imagined his sergeant in Military School did something similar when a student got especially on his nerves and he debated whether to headbutt said student or simply yell and send them away. Paris held her breath, for the first time in the span of their acquaintance seeing Tristan Dugray in a state of such open fury. When the Son Of Sunshine got angry, he was a force to be reckoned.

'You are the best, Paris,' Tristan said between his teeth. 'You know it, I know it, and every single doctor in a ten mile range can tell it by just looking at you work for ten seconds. Stop finding excuses to settle for second best and just do your damn thing.'

Paris blinked, not really knowing what to make of his sudden outburst. She could practically see a vein on Tristan's temple pulsing. The guy had gone batshit crazy. Just like that. Snap. And Tristan Dugray was crazy.

He was watching her with such intense emotion swirling into his blue depths, that she couldn't form a reply. They stood without breaking the eye-lock. Then Tristan paused taking a breath. He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Opened his mouth. Then closed it.

'Excuse me,' he mumbled and left her to stare at his back, holding the small gift bag in her hand. She turned it into her hands a couple of times before she opened it, finding a thin card box. She lifted the tiny lid. A golden bobby pin.

Paris looked between the pin in her hand and the direction in which Dugray had stormed off.

A golden bobby pin For her newly grown hair.

Okay, what the hell just happened?.

* * *

'And then I had those two patients with pharyngitis,' Paris continued. 'A man and a woman, both of them in their seventies, both of them widowed neighbors. I think they'd been sneaking around,' she explained.

Rory gave Paris a confused look.

'Pharyngitis,' Paris repeated spreading both arms to the side and then shook her head. 'Who would've thought that I would enjoy looking at mucus and sputum only to feel like I'm back in the game,' she mused. 'But if you think about it, if it's disgusting, it's more likely to be real medicine.'

Rory blinked, debating whether to comment on the fact that Paris was more concerned about mucus than the fact that her patients were probably doing the nasty next door... Come to think of it, the less she knew, the better.

'Paris, are you all right?' Rory asked.

Paris paused in the middle of her vivid description of the elderly man's tonsils.

'Do I give an impression I'm not?' she asked, her voice a little edgy. 'I haven't been better in the last couple of months. What's up everybody's ass?'

'I was into a hip joint replacement surgery with Tristan earlier,' Rory began carefully.

'Of course you were,' Paris huffed. 'Well good for you. I was perfectly fine taking nasopharyngeal probes while you and Dugray were discussing whether I'm growing a second head or not,' Paris grumbled.

'We didn't talk,' Rory sighed, not really surprised by Paris' irritation. 'It's just... I haven't heard Tristan cuss so much since-' Rory made an indefinite gesture with her hand, 'Well, since ever. I think he's worried about you,' she added more softly.

'Yeah, yelling at me to scrub in for every complicated surgery on the schedule clearly showed so.'

'_You_ yell at people,' Rory reasoned, stressing on the 'you'.

'Exactly,' Paris agreed. '_I_ yell at people. Because I'm me and that's what I do. It isn't like Tristan to go around yelling at people to get their shit together, he's more likely to be spotted reciting _My Little Pony_. He wears T-shirts with cartoon character prints and bangs anything that moves. He likes country, for God's sake.'

'He probably needs a confirmation,' Rory shrugged thoughtfully.

'A confirmation,' Paris repeated.

'That the worst is over,' Rory explained, the look in her eyes knowing. 'He's looking for a proof that you're back.'

Paris narrowed her eyes, lost in contemplation.

'When Jess came back after the surgery, it took me a while to accept that he was alive and breathing and really, that he was okay - physically and emotionally. I needed to see if it was true. I needed proof that he was okay so I could stop looking over my shoulder waiting for something bad to happen. It took me a while.'

Paris opened her mouth and then closed it. It actually made sense. She felt like that all the time. Like she had to get proof that her world wasn't about to go upside down any minute. She just didn't suspect anyone else would feel that way too.

* * *

'Dugray... Tristan. Tristan!' Jess rose his voice. When at last he got Tristan's attention, he pulled onto his shoulder, making him climb off the other man who was lying under him on the gym floor.

'That's enough,' Jess said in a lower voice, squeezing Tristan's shoulder.

'Are you fucking insane? What got into you?' Brian, one of the guys who trained at the gym and sparred with them, scrambled off the floor rubbing onto his left shoulder, his eyes shooting daggers at Tristan, his face sweaty and red with anger.

'I got him, Brian,' Jess said in the same low but firm voice, throwing the other man a warning look.

'He might've sprained my shoulder,' Brian growled.

'I said I got him,' Jess repeated, his voice calm but prompting the discussion was over.

Not wasting any more time, Jess steered Tristan out of the gym floor and into the locker room. When they were out of hearing range, he stopped and nudged at Tristan's shoulder.

'Tristan, what the hell?.' Jess said between his teeth.

Tristan's eyes were unfocused, roaming around. His breathing was still heavy and his arms hung by his side, the palms still squeezed into fists.

Jess took a look at his friend and let out a resigned sigh, running a hand from his jaw to his throat.

'Look, I know it's been tough for you,' he said, 'but this out there,' he motioned towards the gym, 'it got out of hand. You know you can't go around getting into real fights like that. You have to get your shit together.'

Jess looked at Tristan's distraught face and let out another sigh.

'I guess punching bag time is due,' he said resignedly, running a hand through his hair as he watched Tristan leave like a dismissed student from the principal's office. Ah, Dugray.

...

'Paris?' Tristan stepped back from the punching bag he had been thrashing, leaning both hands over his knees, panting.

Paris looked at him, studying him with trademark Paris scrutiny.

As if remembering something his head snapped up.

'You okay?' he asked looking her all over, concern clear in his gaze.

'No,' Paris shook her head, her tone calm and even. She could see the emotion as it crossed his features when he immediately stood straight, making a step towards her. It was sheer terror. It seemed so obvious now.

'But I will be,' she continued, her eyes not leaving his. 'I just went through the most traumatizing experience in my entire life,' she explained. 'I'm not okay. I don't expect to be miraculously okay just because the worst is over. But I will get better and for that, I will need some time.'

Tristan's expression had stilled, his eyes moving between her face and the rest of her body, as if needing to double prove she was indeed gonna be okay. Then, as if deciding he could trust what she was saying, he let out a slow exhale and took hold of her shoulder, pulling her against his chest.

'Jesus, Dugray,' Paris groaned. 'You're sweaty and you stink.'

'In more ways than one,' Tristan said into her hair, repeating her words from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He held her even tighter, both of his arms locking behind her back in a bout of boyish honesty.

'Exactly,' she mumbled against his chest but hugged him back anyway.

The minute she put her arms around him, his whole posture deflated, relaxing against her. Even though his frame was twice as large as hers and the fact that he was the one who had drawn her into a hug in the first place, somehow she ended up being the one hugging him. His head was hung low, as if bowing, asking for forgiveness. Big sweaty men were such crybabies. Paris locked her arms tighter around him. They stood like that for a while, enjoying the closeness neither of them wanting to break the spell of finding comfort into each other's arms.

When they parted she took a step back but his hands lingered, sliding down her arms, wrapping loosely around her wrists, refusing to let go.

'You still go running, right?' she asked looking up at him.

'Yeah,' he answered absently, eyeing her with starved scrutiny. hiis eyes skimming over her face, her shoulders, arms, down to where he was holding her wrists and then back up again.

Paris resisted the urge to slip her hands away and run them through her short hair. It had just grown enough to form some semblance of a haircut. Not nearly enough to need a bobby pin but holding the promise it would get there.

'Take me with you.'

It took him a moment to react.

'What?'

He had been drawing semicircles with his thumbs against the insides of her wrists and stopped when she spoke, seemingly torn out of his trance.

'Take me with you. Train me to run six miles without puking my guts out.'

He drew his head back, looking at her with wondrous eyes.

Paris licked a lip and squinted as her tongue caught on a scab. She couldn't go up a flight of stairs without feeling her lungs burning and her head spinning. She was fifteen pounds lighter than she used to be before the first chemo. She still had the obnoxious chair in her bathroom although she hadn't needed it for a couple of weeks. But she wasn't sure if her body wouldn't betray her when she least expected and she made sure she had backup plan whenever she needed to do something that made her insecure about her physical performance. The thing was, the list of physical activities that made her insecure about her performance bordered with endless. And she needed things to change. **  
**

'I wanna be healthy again,' she said with a mixture of apprehension and determination.

She felt his fingers around her wrists flex tighter. Tristan took a step towards her, their faces inches apart. A muscle in his jaw ticked and the look in his eyes was fierce. He looked like he was gonna start yelling at her or like he was about to jump her bones. She had no idea which. Paris held her breath.

'Can you start tomorrow?' he asked, his voice low and breathy.

She nodded.

He stood for another moment looking at her before he took a sharp inhale and let go, stepping back.

'I'll see you tomorrow then,' he said taking another step away, running both hands through his hair, lacing his fingers behind his neck. 'I'll take you around six.'

'What - in the morning?'

There was a spark of amusement in Tristan's eyes.

'Be ready.'

With that, he headed to the back of the gym where the locker room was.

* * *

**TBC**


	9. Permission To Care

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

**A/N: Special thanks to the faithful readers and reviewers! _Nancy_, thank you so much for reading and reviewing - I always look forward to your reviews and because I don't have another way to tell you this personally since I can't PM you, please just know how important your feedback is to me! Jordana60, PGwonder, sonckad, Sudoku. Music. Banana. - thank you for sticking with this story, for giving this couple a chance, for taking the time to think about the characters' reasoning and faithfully giving me the thumbs up, your support is so very welcome and appreciated! :)  
**

* * *

**THEN**  
'Are you doing this as an elaborate plan to mock me?'

'What?'

'We've been walking at a snail pace for more than an hour.'

'Yeah, and?'

'_And_,' Paris made a frustrated gesture before lifting her water bottle to take a gulp, 'I don't see how this is gonna get me to running six miles in one lap like a front runner.'

'Well, it is.'

'Huh.'

Tristan's eyes narrowed.

'When you see a patient for the first time, what do you do?'

'What?'

'When you see a patient-' he began.

'Jeez, I heard you,' Paris rolled her eyes.

'So?'

'So,' Paris let out a frustrated sigh, lifting her water bottle to swig another gulp, 'I examine them, shocking as it is.'

'Do you know how many times you've been lifting your water bottle to drink?' Tristan asked. 'You're prone to dehydrating. You panted when we took three to five steps up but didn't get tired when we were descending two floors, so your quadriceps needs conditioning before we start on any tougher training. You lack body mass and need to establish a more healthy regimen including more protein and carbohydrates. Your upper half is stronger than your legs, so taking this slow is the only way to do this, giving your body time to get in sync.'

As if on cue, Tristan's digital watch beeped. He looked at the screen and lifted his wrist to show it to Paris.

'Six miles,' he gave her a tight-lipped smile. 'You still think I've been mocking you by making you walk for an hour?'

Okay, the guy was good. He was disturbingly good at something she didn't know the first thing about. So she could shut it for once and let him lead because duh - he was the boss of this.

'Okay, Sherlock,' Paris nodded slowly, 'since you obviously know what you're doing, I'll pretend you didn't just prove me wrong and I'll obediently follow your command.' She paused to give him an arched eyebrow look and there was a mixture of challenge and humor in her eyes. 'You know, since I like to be manhandled and all.'

He paused and gave her a look of his own, his face serious.

'Good.'

'Good.'

When they looked at each other again, their lips were curved with the beginning of a smirk.

* * *

_**Two Weeks Later** _

'Why are you still in your pajamas?' Tristan frowned as he stood at her front door wearing his full running gear. 'You got five minutes to change.'

He was carrying a branded sports shopping bag by his side and his frown deepened as he saw the steaming mug of coffee between Paris' palms.

'Hot beverage isn't the best option before physical workout.'

Paris rolled her eyes but put the mug on the hallway table anyway, muttering a grumpy

'Yes grandma.'

Tristan gazed at his wrist watch.

'You got three minutes since we're already behind schedule.'

'But it's raining!' Paris groaned, looking at her still steaming coffee longingly.

'Drizzling,' Tristan corrected.

'Figure of speech,' Paris rolled her eyes. 'It's wet and it's slippery.'

Tristan crossed his arms before his chest, obviously displeased with her lack of efficiency.

'So?'

'So,' Paris gestured towards the front door, 'plenty.'

Tristan looked nonplussed.

'Look, Paris,' he let out a sigh and looked to the side, rubbing on his chin as he walked further into her apartment. 'I thought we agreed on something.'

Paris lifted her chin defiantly.

'I don't recall agreeing to catching pneumonia.'

'You won't...' he shook his head and then looked her square in the eyes. 'You know what? Let me ask you something else - do you wanna do this or not?'

'Do... what? Run in the rain and freeze my bones while trying to become Waterborne? Hell no.'

Tristan didn't buy her rant, his blue eyes unwavering.

'Do you wanna get back on track and feel healthy again?'

Paris set her jaw firm and held his gaze, glaring. He didn't budge, only made a gesture towards the front door.

'Well?' Tristan asked, shoving the sports shopping bag he had brought with him into her hands. There was a water-resistant women's shield jacket inside. The brand tags were still hanging off the hot pink sleeves.

Paris narrowed her eyes and passed him by, shouldering him on her way to her room while muttering '_sports nazi_' under her breath.

* * *

_**Another Week Later**_

'Ah, remind me why people use sex to raise their endorphin levels,' Paris sighed, leaning both elbows over her knees to catch her breath.

It had been one of the good days. She realized she had good days and bad days. Her way to recovery had been a rocky one, but she soon found the dynamics of good days and bad days was a given. Some days life looked like all odds were in her favor, other times it looked like everything was a dull blur and she wasn't making the tiniest of progress. Today was one of the good days. She felt invigorated, her body buzzing with the hum of adrenaline. She supposed all that restless energy inside her was finally being channeled into something more productive. It had a lot to do with physical exercise making her feel better into her own skin. And it might also have something to do with catching a glimpse of Dugray's abs while he was changing out of his scrubs in the lockers room this afternoon. The guy was cut. Insanely cut. It was a fact. But why was it the image got to her like a punch in the gut every single time? She didn't use to pay attention to male anatomy. Not until her divorce was finalized. Her divorce to a man who had sexy brains and that had been more than enough throughout the span of their relationship. There was another fact - she had always been physically attracted to Dugray. Ever since Chilton, she had acknowledged there was a pull. But she had been a teenager then, so it wasn't a big deal. Good-looking boys made girls act stupid. Even smart girls sometimes acted stupid. It was hormones - it was almost as if they were on some powerful drugs. It was justified. But then they grew up. She did. And their relationship had changed so much over the years. And somehow, Dugray had become her anchor, her confidant, her best friend. And maybe that's why she expected the physical pull to lose some of its weight. Since they were such best buddies now and all. It hadn't. Maybe because somewhere along the way she had fallen for him more than either of them cared to admit. Or because a cut guy was always a cut guy.

They had been working out at the gym today. They came in after work because the whole day it had been raining cats and dogs and it didn't seem to be about to stop even as sun began to set down. Thankfully, today Dugray didn't make her run her way into health through a raging thunderstorm.

'Sport is so much simpler,' Paris mused wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. 'And it works every single time.'

'Do you need me to remind you right now, or can I shower first?' Tristan asked.

She turned up give him a look. He was standing tall beside her, his training tee soaked with sweat, holding an open water bottle in his right hand. His face was serious but his eyes sparkled with amusement. He was kidding.

Paris stood up straighter, leaning closer.

'Only if you're gonna think about me while taking that shower,' she said in a lower, huskier voice.

She watched his face carefully, glad with the way his eyes got wider, all amusement wiping off. Okay, so how did you step out of the friend zone? She was no expert in flirting her way out of it when they had been through so much together. They had gone through hell without giving up on each other, they had always stayed friends first. But going through cancer treatment side by side wasn't exactly a turn-on. And she wanted out of the friend zone. At the very least, she wanted to try despite her spectacular lack of expertise in blurring the lines. Hence doing this the same way she took care of every other thing in her life. Bulldozing through it.

'I hope you do,' Paris said in the same low voice, 'because I sure think about you.'

She held back a satisfied smile as she heard his breath hitch. Okay, so it was either because of her change in demeanor or because of the lustful '_I wanna make your testicles explode_' look she was going for right now. However, Tristan Dugray was speechless. She hoped he was speechless because he felt at least intrigued and not because he was mortified by her impressive lack of practice in dirty talk. Oh jeepers. She was Paris Geller. She could master any skill she put her head into. And if making the former King of Chilton think of her in terms different from his best buddy, so be it.

Tristan watched her through narrowed eyes as if trying to figure her out. She lifted her chin, determined to hold her ground. Without saying a word, he put the water bottle into her hands and then headed towards the showers, combing his fingers through his short hair.

'I'm not dehydrated!' Paris called after him, lifting the bottle to drink anyway.

Without turning back, he lifted an arm to salute her before disappearing into the locker rooms.

* * *

She found him in the scrub rooms. He had just tied his surgical cap and was about to scrub above the sink.

'Hey.'

Tristan looked up, his arms pausing midair with elbows half flexed.

'Hey.'

Paris stood in place, stepping from foot to foot.

'Everything okay?' Tristan asked, frowning.

'Yeah, I...' Paris licked a lip before meeting his look square. 'I finished clinic hours and I - can I scrub in with you?'

Tristan's jaw hung a little, shock making its way quickly across his face before he recuperated and stood straighter, regaining his composure.

It was time she went back into the OR. It had been about time for some time now. Finally she had to come around and just take the leap, diving back in. He knew she would eventually, it just took her disturbingly long to believe in herself again. But she was born to do this, so the most natural outcome was that one of these days Paris Geller would come back into the OR and take her rightful place. That's not what surprised him. What surprised him was that she chose him. The thing was, he always supposed she would rather scrub in with Mariano or some of the more senior surgeons because come on, she was Paris fucking Geller, ace lady-surgeon, badass sassy surgical nazi, post-chemo or not. She could choose any surgeon to scrub in with for her grand return. But she had chosen him instead.

'Of course,' Tristan said with what was supposed to be nonchalance but somehow his voice still got away how important this was to him.

Paris shoved her surgical cap out of her scrubs pocket with something between a frown and a smile. When Paris Geller was nervous, she was either fretting or frowning.

'Thank you,' she said, putting her surgical cap over her head, her fingers trembling as she started to tie the knot at the back.

She felt Tristan's fingers cover hers as he moved to stand behind her. He took over, tying her cap and then placing his palms on her shoulders.

She put her hands down, letting them hang loose by her sides.

'I got you,' he leaned over her ear, placing a small kiss at her nape.

Paris let a breath out. He got her. They got this.

* * *

'You know what your mom's like,' Doyle tried to reason with his son. 'She specifically said she needed some time to sort her healing process out.'

'She never used the words 'healing process',' Josh scoffed. 'It was more along the lines of, you're going to your father's place till I finish chemo and get my bearings back, by the look of things you'll have enough time to develop some surfing skills.'

Doyle inhaled and exhaled, knowing Josh had quoted his mother just right.

'Well guess what,' the boy snapped at no one in particular, his face expressing frustration in a way he had undoubtedly inherited by his mother. Same mother who got him so wound up lately. 'It's been two months - more than enough time for her to meander her way through whatever issues she had to face.'

Doyle squinted at the 'more than enough time' reference, wondering whether he really wanted to get into a conversation like that with his seven year old son. As if sensing his father's inner debate, Josh crossed his arms before his chest.

'She is my mom - I don't need her permission to care,' he concluded with determination that could make mountains crumble and scatter into hiding.

Doyle looked at his son, contemplating his answer. Then gave him a nod.

'I'll check for some plane tickets.'

* * *

**TBC**


	10. Once We Were Right For Each Other

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

* * *

**NOW**

Tristan laced his fingers through hers, resting both their hands over his thigh, his cheek touching the side of her head. They were sitting on the sofa of his apartment watching a movie. His arm felt warm around her shoulders. Paris enjoyed its weight, tucking her into his side. She leaned back resting into his hold. He turned to press his lips in her hair and she let out a content sigh. He did this thing where he would absently kiss her temple or the inside of her wrist. Paris had had some reservations about whether she and Dugray would get on well on a purely basic touching level once they felt more comfortable around each other and the initial sex-starved fog dissipated. After all, he was such a tactile guy while she was usually a do-not-touch policy kind of woman. However, to her surprise the way Tristan approached everyday physical contact was pretty non-invasive and very honest and that somehow got to her, making her feel even more drawn to him whenever he was around. She loved the way he brushed his fingers down her arm whenever he leaned over her shoulder to look at a patient's file or the way he placed his legs just a little wider apart when he was sitting in the same booth so that their feet were close beside. He did those absently, as if he wasn't even fully aware he was doing them in the first place. But he would often touch her, simply giving in to the need to seek her closeness. And for some reason his unawareness made her crave those little everyday gestures of intimacy. Because they showed that he felt comfortable enough to seek her out, to approach and engage her. They showed that he felt drawn to her and felt safe enough to let it show.

'Let's talk about Doyle,' Paris said all of a sudden.

For a short moment Tristan's frame tensed around her.

'Let's not.'

She waited, expecting some kind of elaboration. There was none.

'You're jealous of him,' she commented, probing.

She looked up at Tristan. He didn't say anything to confirm or deny, his look fixed firmly on the TV screen before them.

So, she had sensed him right. She had had to lead some long conversations with Doyle those last couple of days because They had to discuss whether to change Josh's school and discussed the options in pretty great detail. She had thought she caught Tristan's eyes drift between the screen of her mobile lit up with Doyle's contact and her face a couple of times, and every time she thought there his face got tight right before his expression got even.

'You really are,' Paris shook her head as if she still had a hard time believing it. 'You're such a non-jealous guy,' she reasoned. 'Why would you still be jealous of my ex-husband who lives on the other side of the continent?'

'Do we have to discuss this?' he started drawing small semi-circles against the back of her palm with his thumb.

'Yes we do.'

'No we don't.'

'Why?'

'Are we gonna watch that thriller or not?' Tristan asked, a trace of impatience breaking his otherwise humorous tone, his thumb stopping its movement.

Paris gave him an assessing look before she resigned and settled back against his chest with a sigh.

'At some point we have to discuss this,' she said quietly. Tristan didn't reply, seemingly absorbed in the movie as his thumb resumed drawing semi-circles against the back of her palm.

* * *

**THEN **

'What are you doing here?' Paris exclaimed looking at the man and the young boy standing at the doorstep of her apartment.

'Your son doesn't take no for an answer,' Doyle shrugged, his look hesitating between her and Tristan behind her back. Paris and Tristan had been out for their morning run, both of them clad in running gear, holding a bottle of water each.

Paris looked at Josh's expression of no-nonsense utter determination. Duh. Josh didn't take no for an answer. He was her son, through and through.

'On a scale from one to ten how mad are you at me for not calling to tell you to come back earlier?' Paris asked, trying to size Josh without giving in to the impulse to just draw and squeeze him into her arms like the little boy he no longer was.

Josh rolled his eyes in a huff, crossing the short distance between them to wrap her into a tight hug.

'Not enough to ignore the fact you're looking like my mother again,' he whispered against her shoulder, the slight tremble of his voice giving away how much emotion his young heart had been trying to brush under pretend irritation.

Doyle's look moved from Paris and Josh back to Tristan again. The taller man was standing a couple of feet behind his ex-wife in a rather protective stance. Doyle's brow arched.

'Tristan,' Doyle gave him a nod.

'Doyle,' Tristan nodded back, his eyes trained on the shorter man.

For a strained moment both men were looking at each other, trying to figure each other out.

Meanwhile, mother and son were making their way into the apartment, talking vividly.

About an hour and an order-in lunch later, Doyle leaned towards Paris over the counter.

'Can I stay, just until my flight.'

From his place at the table Tristan looked at Doyle through narrowed eyes. Interesting, when would that flight be?

'It's on Saturday,' Doyle elaborated as if reading Tristan's unvoiced question.

Three days.

'If that's okay,' Doyle added, looking between Paris and Tristan.

Paris rolled her eyes, pouring two coffees and placing one in front of Doyle before she drank a long gulp from hers.

'Of course it's okay,' she said. Then she reached over to the kitchen counter where her set of keys stood.

'Here, take my key,' she placed her key into Doyle's palm, 'I'll use the spare one.'

Doyle let the slightest of smirks creep up his lips as he met Tristan's sour look.

Tristan looked at the exchange through narrowed eyes. Sure. Why wouldn't it be okay? It wasn't like the guy didn't know his way around the place. He had lived here, after all. Tristan reminded himself to relax his jaw. If he ground his molars any further a piece was probably gonna chip off.

* * *

**THEN, **

**_Two Days Later_**

Tristan and Doyle were caught in a death stare. She had let a single sentence slip referring to the bathroom sink and the windowsill needing some repair work, and it had set both men on alarm mode. They had been chatting about Josh and Aiden's football trainings and suddenly they were looking at each other like they were about to tear each other's clothes off. Argh. Men.

Paris blinked, contemplating suggesting they got a room or something.

Then Tristan shrugged and broke the death stare, turning to give her a wink.

'I'll check the sink,' he said with fake nonchalance that had Paris narrow her eyes suspiciously.

She heard Tristan's steps as he walked into the kitchen taking the set of pliers she kept in a toolbox under the shelf.

Meanwhile, Doyle had set off to seek out the ladder she kept in the closet.

Paris shook her head and went back to reading the surgical journal she had in her lap, leaning back into her armchair. She had just finished her second article when the sound of running water made her look up. She found Tristan drinking tap water from a glass. Bare-chested. Slightly sweaty. And undeniably gorgeous.

'What happened to your shirt?' Doyle walked in, looking equally sweaty and doubly suspicious.

Tristan shrugged, letting a smirk creep up his lips.

'Bad tube accident ruining poor shirt.'

Paris rolled her eyes and stood up.

'I should've called maintenance,' she sighed. 'I have a couple of your tees upstairs,' she told Tristan, 'I'll go bring you one.'

She had just said the words when she caught the triumphant glint in Tristan's eyes and the way Doyle's face sulked. Ah, the sneaky bastard.

What were they fighting over, exactly? It was completely lost on her. Neither of them was with her. Neither of them was even trying to be with her, each for their own reasons but the fact was she had been ready to be in a relationship with each of them, and each of them had kind of blown her off. So what was the heist now? It was official. Men were even more confusing and illogical than women.

Later that night when Paris was standing at Josh's bedroom door, looking at her son's peaceful sleeping face. Tristan had left a couple of hours ago, the eyelock between him and Doyle strangely intense for reasons that remained unknown to her.

It was a while before Paris felt Doyle was standing by her side leaning against the opposite end of the doorframe.

'You packed?' she asked, minding to keep her voice down so she didn't wake Josh.

'Yeah,' Doyle nodded, his own voice hushed.

They both looked at the sleeping boy, falling into a rather comfortable silence.

'We did a good job,' Paris said.

'He is amazing,' Doyle nodded with a smile. 'Difficult but totally amazing.' Doyle said the last words while looking at her with an undecipherable expression.

Paris turned to the side, their eyes meeting. Doyle was first to break the silence.

'So, you and Dugray,' he half-stated, half-asked.

Paris held his gaze, tilting her head to the side. Doyle smirked and looked down, shaking his head.

'You're right. None of my business.'

They resumed watching a sleeping Josh.

'He's in love with you,' Doyle said after a pause.

Paris' eyes remained trained on their son as she shrugged contemplatively.

'So were you.'

_It wasn't enough. _

In a while she turned to give her ex-husband a look.

'I hope he's less afraid of me,' she shrugged, turning to leave. Doyle put a palm over her shoulder, making her turn back.

'I didn't leave because I stopped loving you,' he said, his eyes searching hers.

'Yeah,' Paris let out a small smile, 'I know.'

She hadn't stopped him from leaving for the exact same reason. Love wasn't always enough. They separated while there was still enough love between them to keep the memory of why once they were right for each other. He didn't leave because he had stopped loving her. He left because loving her had started taking too many pieces of his own self, and he had been afraid of losing himself over that. She didn't let him leave because she didn't love him enough to fight for him. She let him leave because she loved him enough to let him go when she saw he didn't see his place by her side anymore.

'After this last chemo,' Doyle said, his look on her intense and more open than it had been in those last couple of years, 'you gonna be okay?'

_Is it over - are you done with cancer?_ was what Doyle was actually asking. She opened her mouth to tell him that there was no way she could answer such a question. At least not for certain. From that first time when she got the news for her diagnosis to the rest of her life there wouldn't be a single point at which she could answer such a question for certain. She could only hope cancer was done with her. But if it wasn't, she would have to fight this whole battle all over again. The truth was, the mere thought of having to do this over was enough to send her into a silent panic attack. Are you gonna be okay, that's what Doyle had asked. She could tell him the truth that there was no way she could know this. She opened her mouth to answer but then thought about it and smiled.

'Yeah. Yeah, I am.'

Doyle's expression relaxed, relief clear on his face.

'You deserve to be happy,' he said and she knew he was being honest.

'Thanks, Doyle,' she gave him a tight lipped smile and patted his hand twice before moving towards her room.

'I've made up the sofa downstairs. If you need something, I'm tired after a long day shift so yeah, help yourself.'

_It's not like you don't know your way around the place. _

She heard him huff out a chuckle and smirked herself.

It wasn't until she closed the door to her room and leaned back against it when she let her eyes shut and reminded herself to breathe.

She wondered if back in the days while they still used to be together she did the same thing, shielding him from the uncomfortable details. Because Doyle was fine with snappy and quirky, he was fine with sassy and more than efficient when things were going smoothly, but whenever things got rough and out of control, she was the one who led them through, being the designated crisis handler and all. Doyle had always leaned onto her whenever a tough period settled in, letting her take charge, take the lead, get them through. They would joke around that she was simply better at screaming at people than anyone they knew. But the truth was she had become the tip of his spear. And the moment she wasn't able to hold it together, that's when they lost their balance. Because whenever she broke, they broke. And it had always haunted her - if she'd let herself be fragile with him, would Doyle feel less like she was closing him off? If she had let him take charge, would he be willing, would he be able to pull them through? And up to this moment she didn't know if she got the answer to this question right. Tonight she knew she did. And it felt both like a sting and a relief to know that she couldn't have carried this relationship any further than she already had. Because whenever times got rough, Doyle had let her shield him, silently begging for her to take the lead. And at some point it had started feeling like she was baron Munchausen, pulling herself out of the swamp by her own hair. Truth had started feeling like it was a slippery thing. Truth had started to feel like it was contingent - contingent upon its time, upon its audience and upon its situation. And it had hurt her in more ways than she had cared to acknowledge. Because Truth was supposed to feel like it was unconditional. Like it was strong enough to pull them through even when one of them was feeling unsteady. Truth was supposed to feel like Love did - like it was enough.

Paris squeezed her eyes shut once more before she opened them, lifting her hand to inspect her currently bare ring finger.

_Once we were right for each other. _

_Not anymore. _

Truth had changed.

* * *

**THEN, **

_**Another Couple Of Days Later**_

'Excuse me,' the tall girl said, stopping by Paris' side but trailing Tristan's leaving form with her eyes. She looked slightly uncomfortable. 'I hope I'm not bothering, but could you by any chance tell me if your gym instructor is single?'

Paris looked up at the younger woman's face and blinked.

'Why?'

The girl stepped from one long foot on the other, biting her lips.

'I... Well, I couldn't help but notice he's quite hot,' she admitted. Okay, at least that was as honest as it got.

Paris' lips broke into a wide smile.

'Oh, thank God,' Paris sighed with relief. 'After the surgery he's been so gloomy, afraid no woman would ever turn his way again.'

'Ehm... _surgery_?'

'Yeah,' Paris nodded enthusiastically, 'the surgery he had because of his testicular cancer. He had to have both of his balls removed, as well as part of... you know,' Paris gave the girl a meaningful look, as if to say 'let this be our little secret'.

'Oh.'

The terror in the younger woman's eyes was unmistakable.

'But I'm sure he's still extremely capable,' Paris assured. 'Plus he has a heart of gold, you have to see him take care of his preteen son. He's the best. Let me just fetch my mobile so I can give you his number, he's gonna be ecstatic to start dating again...'

Paris made a move towards the lockers room, but the girl caught her arm.

'No, no, don't bother,' she said hastily. 'It's really not that important.'

'But didn't you just say-' Paris gave her a confused look.

'I forgot that I have somewhere to be. Like, yesterday. Geez, look at the time,' the girl looked at the big clock on the wall. 'I'll catch you next time and make sure to say hi, okay?'

Without waiting for a reply, the younger woman strode off.

'I didn't catch your name,' Paris called after her, hardly keeping her grin at bay.

'Who was that?' Tristan asked, standing beside her, handing her a bottle of water.

Paris shrugged.

'No idea, didn't drop her name.'

Tristan gave her a suspicious look.

'You sure you're okay?' he asked.

'Yeah,' Paris' smile grew even more. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'You're grinning like a maniac,' Tristan said, giving her a once-over. 'Make sure to stay hydrated okay?'

'Whatever you say, boss,' Paris opened the bottle of water and drank, her eyes still sparkling with laughter as she closed her lips around the bottle.

* * *

**TBC**


	11. I Got You

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine._

_A/N: Long time no write... This chapter took so long - at first it was never complete enough, then good enough, then sooner or later it had to be out, wrapped around or not. To everyone who's still around to R&R - thank you, with special credit to** jordana60** \- thank you so much, dear friend, without your continuous and faithful support I'm not sure if I'd still be updating! Special credit goes to **Nancy** \- a very special and anticipated reviewer too :) Welcome to this series, **HeyMe**, I___'ll try to update on a more regular basis, thank you for sticking up with the whole series as well as to the new installment! _ Also, welcome to another new friend - **happimood**, thank you so much for joining! I'm so giddy when I read your comments, it's like I relive all those past chapters again! And for anyone who's reading this - since you're already here and so is the new update, here we go again. Don't be shy, leave a word, let me know, hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

**NOW**

Tristan opened Aiden's room and waited for the thirteen year old to enter before him. When his look met Paris' questioning gaze, there was a frown grazing Tristan's forehead just before he closed the door after himself. It didn't happen every day that Tristan had to have closed door talks with Aiden. It didn't happen every day but it did happen more and more often lately.

Their hushed voices carried over. Paris didn't want to eavesdrop but she did catch a word or two and she could tell they were talking in Turkish.

'You still talk to him in Turkish?' Paris half-questioned, half-asserted as Tristan came out of Aiden's room a couple of minutes later.

Tristan reached up to one of the kitchen cupboards and took a glass. He paused tossing the glass between his palms, her words taking a while to register. Then he poured himself from the tap and drank up before he answered.

'I... It served as a means to remind him of his roots.'

He paused and looked around, avoiding her gaze as he puffed some air through his cheeks. She could see a flush creeping up his neck. He was inwardly debating whether to talk at all or leave it be. He seemed conflicted. She had rarely seen him like this. He was usually easy as Sunday morning.

'I don't know,' Tristan sighed, 'I guess I thought it would be easier to feel like he belonged somewhere new if he remembered where he came from in the first place. I don't want him trying to forget about his homeland. Or his mom. Especially his mom. I want him to remember her. Not that he's likely to forget his own mother, I mean-' he rambled, then sighed, 'I don't know what I mean. I know he remembers her, or at least the idea of her, and I don't want him feeling awkward about it. He was four years old when it all happened and I-' he wet his lips, 'Shit. I'm not good at this.'

Paris waited patiently until Tristan got his bearings. He was talking more to himself than to her and she didn't want to break his inward dialogue.

'Aiden's childhood sucked in too many ways but he was also loved,' he continued. 'Aida loved him more than anything, but she was unable to protect herself from the repercussions this love came with. She had bound herself to a dangerous man. And Aiden's father was dangerous alright. In that chills-down-your-spine-when-he-enters-the-room way, he was deranged. He was dangerous in a way that even a four year old could tell what he was.'

'I want him to remember though,' Tristan wiped a palm over his mouth thoughtfully, 'At least the good stuff. And I know there will be a lot of stuff he'll remember despite trying not to, and it's bound to give him hell. But at least he'll know he's got someone to share those memories with. He will remember things that make him mellow along with stuff that makes him cringe. I want him to know _I_ remember. Trying to forget never really swipes the slate clean. It only pushes back the acknowledgement that crap exists, engraving it somewhere deeper into your brain, somewhere one day even you won't be able to tell. And one day you find yourself acting weird and you have no idea why, and you don't have the slightest clue how not to. Not acknowledging shit only makes it worse, gives it more power.'

Tristan paused, lifting a hand to scratch his neck.

'It's probably psychological bullshit,' he smiled uncomfortably, realizing he'd gotten carried away.

'No it's not,' Paris shook her head. 'It's kind. It's thoughtful. You and Aiden are related in an unconventional way. Being unconventional doesn't make it insignificant. You understand each other.'

She saw the bitter smile on Tristan's face and leaned forward knowingly, leaving the book she'd been reading on the coffee table.

'Ignoring the monsters only lets them stay,' Paris reasoned calmly. 'It's good you're trying to make him talk. As long as he feels safe enough to vent and lash out at you, it's fine. You can take my opinion on the matter, right? I have a vast experience when it comes to lashing out. You don't bitch at people you don't trust have the capacity to deal with it.'

'That's the thing,' Tristan shook his head grimly, 'he doesn't. He doesn't vent. He doesn't lash out. He's like a closed vacuum space that never lets on a thing and I'm spinning in circles, trying to crack his code.'

'Sometimes, when he's like that,' Tristan gestured towards Aiden's room, 'it feels easier to reach out to him in his mother language. It's like for a moment he's actually listening again.'

Aiden was generally an overly mature kid. Wise beyond his young age, he was about to grow into an incredible young man. Paris new that. Tristan knew that. At least he used to know that, until Aiden started to get more and more moody, brooding, closing himself off. And at those times, Aiden didn't come off as wise. He came off as a kid with a burden. A kid whose childhood had been cut short by an abusive household, followed by the tragic loss of his mother who was his only beloved person. Tristan suspected Aiden didn't explicitly remember his mother suffering his father's abusive behavior, both verbally and physically. Or maybe he did remember but simply concealed it well. It seemed harder and harder to read him these days. Tristan had been an angry teenager acting out, trying to get notice of how lost he felt because of his emotionally unavailable parents. Aiden, on the contrary, was silent - deep water, not a ripple on the surface. People scarred differently, Tristan had learned, and different types of scarring required different care. With Aiden, you couldn't tell if there was a scar at all. That's how well he concealed his wounds.

Tristan poured himself another glass of water and drank up. He had been such a clueless teenager himself, how was he supposed to navigate through another kid's complex process of coming of age? It was bound to be a disaster. Damage recognized damage but how could damage heal damage? He had learned through experience that scars were lessons learned. But scars were also inert tissue, something to fill the voids without providing function or feeling. Scars were stitches that kept the body whole in order to not fall apart. The more of them you had, the less alive, feeling and functioning tissue you got left.

Tristan put the empty water glass on the kitchen counter and placed his palms on each side of it, bracing himself. His head hung low between his shoulders and he looked as if he might start doing push-ups to beat frustration.

On a long exhale, he admitted,

'I have no idea what I'm doing.'

Paris nodded thoughtfully.

'You're a natural.'

Tristan didn't reply, his shoulders moving up and down with each inhale and exhale, his head still hung low, probably silently finishing Paris' thought with 'a natural klutz' or 'a natural slacker'.

'A natural parent,' Paris elaborated.

'You're doing good,' she continued as Tristan looked up, confusion clearly written over his face at the sound of her praising him. 'You're honest,' she shrugged, 'You're present. If Aiden needs you, he knows you'll be there.'

Paris nodded, as if to confirm he'd heard her right.

'Just wait for him, he'll come around. Your task is to still be there when he does. Be around as he grows up, help him get back on track, and he'll eventually come around. You know you can't figure things out for him, right? He has to figure them out for himself. Your job is to be there when he doesn't and not let him give up searching.'

Tristan blinked, taking in how serious she was. She wasn't mocking him. She was actually telling him she believed in him. Wowza.

Tristan squeezed his jaw, chewing on the inside of his lips.

'Today I told him I had no idea how to raise a teenager,' he said wryly. 'I can't be a mess when my teenage boy is a mess. Being a mess is designated for when you're a teenager,' he added, worry evident in his eyes.

'But it's not,' Paris said with a knowing smile.

They stood facing each other, their eyes communicating in silent exchange.

'No it isn't,' Tristan affirmed.

Paris Geller had been raised with a looming feeling of neglect throwing a shadow over her whole childhood. Tristan Dugray had been raised to believe it was only natural to be unloved. Being messed up was hardly limited to a certain age or way of upbringing. Anything could screw you up. Coming of age didn't change that. It didn't unscrew you, it simply taught you to wear your scars better, with more style and dignity, hidden under a shinier cover, but did it teach you to really deal with them? The only thing that taught you dealing with your baggage was dealing with your baggage.

* * *

**THEN**

Dr Tristan Dugray opened the door to his apartment, all but hugging the door frame.

'Hey,' Dr Paris Geller gave him a once over, standing before him in her running gear.

'Did you get my text?'

He was in a pair of old sweats and hoodie that seemed like they'd seen better days. Much, much better days. His hair that he'd let grow longer than usual was a mess, his jaw scruffy and his eyes puffy and glazed over. He looked beaten.

'The text where you sound like the Grinch? Yeah I did.'

She arched an eyebrow and quoted,

'_Sick, vomiting all over the place. Unsocialize me for the day.'_

Then she rolled her eyes and waved dismissively.

'Whatever that means.'

Maybe in Tristan's world skipping running meant he would only do two hours of workout at home (as opposed to doing four). That was, until he stopped vomiting all over the place and limited it to, say, only designated areas. Or maybe he was dying. Really, agonizingly, ceasing to exist. He hadn't, after all, ever skipped training. Like, ever. Even when he had the flu last year, he went to the gym to 'sweat the virus out of his system'. The longest he'd gone without training was when he had his shin smashed by a heavy concrete element almost three years ago and he had to limp around with a cast for a month, but even then she knew he did some weight-lifting at home. His physical energy was something that turned into a beast if not guided into the right direction, so skipping training today was unusual to say the least. Unusual enough to warrant a checkup.

'I've been a little sick,' Tristan gave Paris a weak smile as if to confirm the 'a little' part, rearranging his limbs so that leaning against the door looked like his casual leisurely posture. Maybe it would've worked, didn't it seem like he would collapse any minute now.

'Geez, you do look like shit,' Paris commented, stepping inside. 'And I don't mean it in that you feel like shit but actually make it look cool in a way, I mean it in that you feel like shit and you actually look like shit way.'

She stopped to place the back of her hand over his forehead as she entered his apartment.

'How much?'

Tristan shrugged half-heartedly, his movements sluggish as he followed her into his living room.

'How much, Dugray?' Paris asked, her voice taking on an impatient vibe. By that point it was pointless to deny the obvious. He was feverish. Had been. Still was.

'Been going up and down but basically revolving around a hundred all night,' Tristan replied, leaning against the counter, using it for support much more than for leisure.

'Why are you still up?' Paris blinked, seemingly confused. 'Couch,' she motioned towards his couch that looked like it had served as Tristan's natural habitat for a while now.

'Paris-' Tristan tried to argue.

'Couch.' Paris repeated, her voice not budging an inch. 'Now.'

He dragged his limbs to the couch, muttering 'so bossy' under his nose.

Paris didn't pay attention to his meek protest, already opening his kitchen cabinets and drawers.

'What are you doing?' Tristan asked from the couch, his voice already sleepy.

Paris was taking supplies out, taking off her running jacket and tossing it in a ball over one of the high stools.

'Whatever you're about to cook, remember I'm gonna vomit it anyway,' he tried to reason, weakly.

'Then I'm gonna have to force it back down your throat,' Paris said dispassionately, immersed into the contents of his refrigerator.

...

'Wake up. Tristan... wake up.'

Tristan felt a cool palm over his forehead and mumbled something incoherent in protest.

'Tristan, you're feverish. Wake up.'

Tristan opened one eye, the light coming from the kitchen area making him squint.

'Can you turn the lights off?'

'I would but infrared isn't working so well for me these days so I need light in order to feed you the right dose of Tylenol.'

Tristan assumed a semi sitting position in the couch leaning back on his elbows, trying to blink the grogginess away.

'What?'

Paris sighed dramatically,

'Forget it, your grey matter has the consistency of jello.'

'What time is it?' he asked, his voice sounding like sandpaper.

'Exactly the time for your Tylenol.'

'Eh?' he asked, still disoriented.

'It's one thirty,' she sighed with an eye roll. 'Will you drink this or not?'

'You stayed the whole afternoon?' he asked, absently drinking the Tylenol with the glass of water she shoved into his hands.

Paris ignored his question, taking the glass from his hand and swapping it for a clean T-shirt.

'Put this on, your tee is soaked.'

Tristan looked between her and the tee, still at a loss.

'You're so slow when you're feverish, it's like your brain is on vacation,' Paris groaned. Then she narrowed her eyes, spotting his mobile lying beside him on the couch.

She took the mobile and put the headphones on.

'Is that a _banjo_?.' she put the headphones down, giving Tristan a concerned look.

'Jesus, Dugray,' she shook her head, 'it's worse than I thought.'

She sighed, patting his shoulder.

'No wonder you've been puking all over the place. You have the music taste of a little girl raised on a farm by her grandma. Now change before I catch sinusitis from your stench.'

'I can't help that you have the music taste of a bank robber who's into some dark S&M,' Tristan muttered, putting his feet down on the floor as he moved to sit on the couch.

'Dugray, is that an attitude? I knew you had sass somewhere in that gooey heart of yours. I'm rubbing off on you.'

Tristan moved his gaze around, making an effort to appear more awake than he felt. The empty bag of dried papaya on the kitchen counter caught his eye. It was his secret stash for handling a Paris crisis. Now it was gone.

'You ate all of it?'

'What do you think?'

'There was like two pounds in there.'

'I was nervous,' she shrugged. 'I've been having a tough case of stupid sick athlete.'

Tristan kept his incredulous eyes on her. She met his look with an eye roll.

'What?.'

'Do you hear something?' he managed a smirk, albeit weary.

'No.'

'It's your conscience. But you're right, it's stuffed under a pile of papaya.'

'Ha-ha.'

Tristan shook his head sleepily and moved to pull his soaked tee off of his back, pulling it over his head.

'Shit.'

'Yeah, I know' Tristan said, mistaking her astonishment for awe with his abs.

'Not that, dumbass,' Paris moved over to him, pushing on his shoulder so he stood straighter and she could look at him more closely. 'You have a rash,' she said, inspecting the vesicles over Tristan's chest and torso. Tristan looked down.

'Shit,' he muttered under his breath.

'Dugray, where the hell did you get chickenpox?'

* * *

**NOW**

'I got a kid with abdominal pain and all tests came out negative.'

'Humph.'

'He's the grandson of a member of the board.'

'Hmm?'

'I had him stay the night at Paeds. Still nothing.'

'Oh.'

'Tristan, will you look away from your phone? I'm telling you either I'm missing a diagnosis or I have to tell the daughter of a board member that her son's lying. And what's worse, before I tell the daughter of a board member that her son's lying, I have to go tell Beatrice Shefield.'

'Aham.'

'_Aham_? That's all you have to say?' Paris threw her hands to the side. 'You know what? Forget it. I'm facing the Ice Queen. I'm gonna have to tell her anyway so better sooner than later. Well, essentially, better never than later but - whatever. Come on, say something chiefly.'

Tristan frowned, his look momentarily torn away from the screen of his mobile.

'What?'

'Say something chiefly,' Paris waved impatiently. 'So I can practice.'

Tristan blinked.

'Geller, get out of my face.'

Paris stood straighter, slanting her head to the side indignantly.

'_Excuse_ me?.'

'You don't seriously want me to tell a board director's daughter that her son is a pretty little liar, do you? Go find what's wrong with the boy, stat.'

Paris stood in front of him, blinking.

'Why are you still here instead of doing another round of tests there?' Tristan finished, looking straight at her in what seemed like a stony expression.

'You're good,' Paris said with an air of awe. 'You're really good. Who knew you had a mean streak in that gooey heart of yours?'

Tristan shrugged, getting back to scrolling over his phone screen.

'What are you doing anyway?' Paris asked, narrowing her eyes and moving to have a look at the screen of Tristan's iPhone.

'Looking for new break pads for the car,' Tristan answered absently, his attention focused solely on the screen again.

'Don't auto mechanics exist for that purpose?' Paris asked dispassionately, clearly at a loss why he would spare a single minute doing something that was beyond his field of expertise.

Tristan let out an unintelligible sound, something between a 'humph' and an 'umph'.

'Plus, isn't it illegal to repair your own vehicle these days?'

'Hello, nobody touches my baby but me,' Tristan said, looking offended by the mere assumption that someone else would be in charge of repairing his Audi.

'Okay, whatever,' Paris clipped after sizing him up and down. 'If I have to bail you out of jail for this, you're gonna be deeply in my debt.'

She blinked, registering the lack of reaction.

'You can start repaying me right now. I need to look bored, despising and untouchable when I enter Shefield's office,' Paris said in her business tone, already forming a game plan in her head as she smoothed the edges of her white coat. 'Essentially, I need to transform into a cat.'

'You're about to deliver the news that a board member's grandson is faking his symptoms,' Tristan said without tearing his eyes from the new tab he had opened. He looked through the specifics of the various brands of break pads through narrowed eyes. 'You better look mean,' he continued, licking his lip in concentration as he scrolled further down the website page. 'Imagine you're a professional model walking down the catwalk when you enter her office. And prepare some grovelling for the member of the board and his daughter. Shefield's gonna make you go tell the family their kid has managed to lie to them as well as a whole team of medical professionals and it won't be pretty.'

With that, Tristan was dead to the world, totally immersed in the contents of the DIY car repair site he had just opened. She was so gonna have to bail him out.

* * *

**THEN**

'We're watching a movie,' Paris announced as Tristan came back from the bathroom where he, as promised, had lost all traces of the soup she had cooked him for dinner last night. He looked exhausted and there were pronounced dark circles under his eyes.

'I'm not really-'

'It's _Braveheart_.'

'I'll be watching from the sofa because standing vertically makes the puking so much worse.'

'Be my guest,' Paris patted the sofa, making room for him. She put a comforter in her lap and motioned for Tristan to put his head down. When he gave her a questioning look she rolled her eyes impatiently.

'Come on, Dugray, drag your hot bod over here, I won't bite.'

'Why are you doing this?' he asked incredulously as he sat down on the sofa, looking slightly suspicious.

'The comforter will keep the vomit away from my legs if you feel inclined to throw up any remaining traces of soup,' Paris nodded towards the comforter in her lap. 'Duh.'

Tristan blinked, not buying her attempt to change topic.

'You've been helping me, making me food and keeping me company,' he said slowly, as if not believing his own words. 'You've been acting friendly,' he added in almost a whisper, the mere thought obviously creeping him out.

'Are you kidding me? For once I'm not the one puking my guts all over the place, let me enjoy it,' Paris beamed up at him, looking innocent. 'I may actually have to throw Rory and Jess a party for asking you to take Allie from daycare that one time two weeks ago.'

Paris paused, waiting for Tristan to react to her joke. He didn't. He was studying her, his eyes narrowed, as if searching for any traces of mockery. Ah, he was so out of his game. Fever, rash and dehydration had taken him down.

'You've never had anyone take care of you, have you?' Paris asked in a softer, more careful voice.

Tristan kept quiet which in itself was telling enough. Neither of them talked for a moment, which made Paris roll her eyes patting the comforter in her lap.

'After _Braveheart_ I'm loading _Point Break_.'

'Heavens sent you,' Tristan conceded, moving to lie down, placing his head on the comforter with a sigh.

At some point through the movie she started absently sifting her fingers through his hair and she could swear he stilled for a good five minutes before he gave up and relaxed, closing his eyes.

'How come you didn't have the chickenpox as a kid?' she asked somewhere towards the end of the first movie they were watching. 'You have an older sister, right?'

'Right,' Tristan said, his voice sleepy.

'I should warn you there's an increasing number of places I'd like you to scratch,' Tristan yawned, lids fluttering.

'Tristan?'

'Yeah.'

'Shut up.'

'Okay.'

They were halfway through the second movie when he spoke again.

'When my sister was six and I was four, my parents went on a three week vacation around Europe. My sister was with them. She had the chickenpox while she was there.'

They took his sister. That's why he didn't get the chickenpox then. Because his parents took his sister and they didn't take him. He had mentioned that once, hadn't he? He had been an unplanned child. To the Dugray family, this was as good as being labelled unwanted. Paris stopped sifting her hand through his hair for a moment, feeling an overwhelming bout of anger. She felt so angry on four-year-old-Tristan's behalf, she thought she might explode. He never had anyone take care of him. Indeed. However, it was over now. Years had passed. He turned out okay. Paris relaxed her hand, her fingers resuming their sifting.

'If you're off somewhere puking your guts, you bet I'll be there to shove Tylenol down your throat. I got you.' She got him.

A pause. Then,

'Okay?'

'Okay.'

Another pause.

'Thanks, Paris.'

_Anytime, dumb boy. Anytime. _

* * *

**NOW**

Dr Paris Geller moved her gaze between the chief of surgery and the board member's daughter. The stare off had been so intense, Paris wished she had a bag of dried papaya to chew on while she watched.

'You can't seriously imply that my son has been lying to me, as well as a whole team of medical professionals only so that he could get me and my husband in one place,' the younger woman said, her eyes flashing dangerously.

_Here it goes. _

Beatrice Shefield stood facing the other woman, elegant and poised in her white dress suit without giving away as much as a flinch.

'This is ridiculous,' Katelyn Graves huffed, pacing before them. 'Me and Jack have been divorced for almost a year. We've moved on. Rhys moved on.'

Beatrice Shefield stood, calmly watching as the wheels in Ms Graves' head turned.

'Rhys moved on...' she said thoughtfully, looking up at them with worried eyes. 'Or hasn't he?'

'I'm sorry, Ms Graves,' Beatrice Shefield said with polite detachment.

Paris watched as realization slowly dawned on Ms Graves' face. She watched as Beatrice Shefield looked at the other woman, patiently waiting for her to accept the new knowledge and recollect herself, facing the consequences. What struck Paris was the ease with which Beatrice Shefield, a woman of little interest in the emotional world as a whole and even greater lack of interest in high principles in particular, show such deep understanding of the way a troubled kid of divorced parents' brain worked.

Rhys Graves was a twelve year old boy with exceptionally high IQ. As the grandson of his influential grandfather he was a privileged kid with sharp brains. That helped elevate his credibility immensely when he started sharing his symptoms with the school nurse and then his parents a couple of days prior. He had been so convincing, even Paris had believed she'd been missing something, hence prolonging his stay at the hospital for extra testing. As Paris presented the test results to chief Shefield, Beatrice had wished to meet the boy and his family. Five minutes into her visit in the boy's VIP hospital room she was ready to talk to the family, announcing that Rhys Graves had no symptoms that put his physical health in danger and had been in fact lying to them. For what it was worth, Beatrice Shefield could handle an uncomfortable situation and shoulder it her way effortlessly.

'How-'

Paris shook her head as they walked back towards the chief's office to sign the discharge papers.

'How did you know?'

Beatrice Shefield gave Paris a dispassionate look and entered her office, not bothering to hold the door for Paris.

'Rhys Graves is a smart kid. He's smart and he knows it. He was smart enough to orchestrate all this and he was well aware,' Beatrice said, taking Rhys Graves' file and sitting down behind her desk. 'What he doesn't know is he wasn't smart enough to prevent his parents' divorce and everything that came after. Are you going to sign these, Geller?' Shefield asked, nodding towards the discharge papers. 'Or are you gonna keep staring?'

...

Later, as they finished dinner with the boys, Paris and Tristan carried the dishes towards the kitchen.

'Do you know Shefield's parents?' Paris asked.

Tristan shrugged, rinsing a plate and putting it into the dishwasher.

'Not personally. They're divorced for all I know. Why?'

Paris put two glasses into the sink and bit on her lip thoughtfully.

'I know she's the root of all evil, spawn of Satan and Hydra double double agent and we from SHIELD resent her with all our might, but-' Paris took a breath, shaking her head, 'I can't help it, I have a crush on her. A very platonic, strictly intellectual crush, not to get your hopes up or anything,' she rolled her eyes as she saw Tristan's sly smirk.

'You're rambling,' Tristan said, studying her.

'Yeah,' Paris let out a sigh, putting the last plate into the dishwasher and closing it shut. 'I'm making Marvel reference, so duh.'

'You do have a crush on her,' he said incredulously.

'She has a hunky brain,' Paris shrugged. 'I can't help it, I'm intrigued.'

* * *

'Are you telling me I have green light to screw up?' Joshua McMaster asked his mother, the words obviously tasting wrong even in his own mouth.

'Essentially, yeah,' Paris Geller replied to her son thoughtfully, the answer seemingly surprising herself.

'Is this some elaborate plot to ground me?' Josh asked carefully. 'Are you setting a trap?'

'Believe it or not, I'm honestly concerned about your proper upbringing,' his mom shrugged.

'And you're showing this through... suggesting I do stupid stuff because I'm a preteen?' the boy asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.

'Look,' Paris sighed, 'I have been through stage three cancer treatment, you've been on the receiving end of a lot of potential and real drama, you didn't have time to do stupid stuff. And kids do stupid stuff. Even the smart ones.'

'They... do?' Josh arched an eyebrow.

'Yeah,' Paris waved her hand in generalization. 'All the time. Well, not really all the time, but some of it. Every now and then. One stupid thing a month.'

She paused, as if considering the exact amount of stupidity a preteen was supposed to utilize.

'Give or take,' she slanted her head to the side, thoughtful. 'It's part of the learning curve. _Do stupid stuff_,' she recited like a slogan. 'Comes right before the _become an immaculate genius_ part of the curve.'

'You were a little kid when the divorce came through,' Paris continued. 'And you were hardly free to do anything stupid while I was on chemo and hardly stood upright. It was a dark time. You are so young but have been through a lot of life's crap already. You had no choice. And you went through it with dignity. You weren't free to do whatever stupid stunt you came up with then.'

'And I'm free to do it now?' Josh blinked, confusion battling with doubt in his eyes.

Paris livened up.

'Yeah. By all means. Go ahead. Be stupid.' Then, seemingly remembering something, 'Only don't get anyone pregnant.'

'Mom!'

'What?. You're my son, I'm strongly biased but never mind - you're gorgeous, girls are gonna throw themselves at you. Do I need to go through that lecture about protection again?'

'Please don't.'

'Okay.'

Josh looked visibly relieved.

'Okay.'

Paris stood and looked at him, blinking lovingly.

'I just want you to know that you can be the kid because I will be the parent. I got your back.'

'And you're always around to bust my balls, got it.'

'Language, Josh.'

Oh, so _now_ she cared about language.

'Sure. Language. Okay,' he said rolling his eyes. 'Is that all?' Josh prompted when his mom didn't make a move to leave the room.

Paris started moving, suddenly aware she was fanning crazy mama eyes on her son.

She had reached the door to his room when he spoke.

'You realize you're only telling me to go do stupid things because you're inwardly convinced I won't, right?'

Paris stopped and turned to face him, sporting a little thoughtful smile.

'You've always been too smart for your own good,' she shrugged. 'I'm your mom - I'll always believe the best for you and fear the worst. What I want you to know is I'm aware that sometimes you'll screw up. I want you to feel free to come talk to me when that happens. Whatever the case, I want you to know I can handle it. Because I'm badass as that.'

'Thanks, mom.'

Paris gave him a wink.

'Anytime, kiddo.'

* * *

**TBC**


	12. Something's Gotta Give

_A/N: I love that this story still has you guys to R&R. I anticipate your thoughts - leave a word, let me know:)_

_To those of you who asked for more Rory and Jess time - I hope you enjoy, thanks for requesting this! Never hesitate to share your feelings about this story and its characters, I'm always here to listen :)_

* * *

**NOW**

'Again, why did we concede to this?' Rory asked Paris before getting out of the Audi's backseat and looking around.

'Ask your husband,' Paris sneered, rotating her shoulders and cracking her neck.

'High altitude acclimatization increases performance back at sea level,' Jess delivered with an apologetic smile, closing the passenger door with his foot as he got out, stretching his arms above his head.

'As a sworn coach potato I don't really think me and mountain hiking go well in the same sentence,' Rory sighed. 'Here, I'm already craving for some trash TV and junk food. We could've taken the hypoxic challenge back at home between reruns of _Good Omens_.'

'_Good Omens_ isn't trash TV,' Jess reasoned.

'See?' Rory cheered up, 'It would've been great.'

'I could've used the hypoxic challenge,' Jess delivered, giving Rory a wink.

She sighed theatrically,

'I hate mountain climbing.'

'Think about all that increase in performance back at sea level,' Jess wiggled his eyebrows.

'Are you always this gushy when Allie's not around?' Paris asked matter-of-factly.

'Always.'

'Good to know.' Then she turned towards Tristan. 'We're taking the kids next time.'

'Dismounting the car is hardly called mountain hiking,' Tristan muttered rounding the car to open the trunk. 'Stop complaining and take your bags.'

The rest of the group exchanged meaningful looks behind Tristan's back. If his voice had subtitles, they would read _I've Been To_ _Military School._ His friends had rarely seen this side of him although it was safe to guess it had always been in there somewhere.

'That's it?' Paris asked, studying the wooden building before them with her hip propped against the side of the hood. It was a one-storey three bedroom farm house on top of the hill. It was too small to serve as an actual farm and was obviously meant for recreational purposes. Booking it for two nights came with free access to the small barn that, according to the booking website, housed cage-free hens, two cows and a couple of horses.

'That's it,' Jess confirmed, pausing beside her with both his and Rory's overnight bags hanging off his arm.

'The cabin in the woods,' Paris said dispassionately.

'When you say it like that, you make is sound creepy,' Rory scrunched her nose, joining them with her arms crossed.

'I'm a surgeon,' Paris shrugged. 'I'm used to inhabiting a sterile environment, being in the woods is bound to be horrific.'

'Come on,' Tristan took Paris' leather travel bag from the trunk and swung it over his shoulder, next to his own duffel. 'Let's get inside.'

* * *

**TWO WEEKS AGO**

'What do you think I've been up to?'

'I don't have the faintest clue, Aiden,' Tristan sighed. 'Why don't you tell me what you've been up to so I don't have to guess?'

'What does it matter,' Aiden muttered angrily, 'Whatever I tell you, you won't believe. It's obvious you don't trust me so whatever I say, you'll still second guess.'

'That's not true and you know it,' Tristan scowled. He had to know it. Right? 'The only reason I have to cross examine you is because you never talk to me anymore. I want to trust you, I just don't know if I should.'

Aiden rose his head giving Tristan a sharp look.

Tristan braced himself. He waited for the angry outburst, for Aiden calling him out on being a coward and a hypocrite, for needing proof, for looking for special reasons in order to trust his own son. After all, Aiden had never given Tristan reasons to not trust him. If there was any rightful anger directed in Tristan's direction it wouldn't be entirely misplaced. Tristan braced himself to take it like a champ. He would have it. It was high time he had it. Anything. Something. But all Tristan got was the boy's stung expression and, for the millionth time, silence. Above his pressed lips, hurt and anger battled into Aiden's eyes. And it seemed like a habitual deep, unfathomable sadness had settled between them.

Tristan winced. Maybe he had chosen the wrong words. Who was he kidding - with Aiden, all words seemed to come out wrong these days.

'Please talk to me,' he pleaded. What wouldn't he give for Aiden to talk back.

Aiden regarded his father silently.

'I don't have anything to say,' the boy admitted quietly and for the first time he looked like he really didn't. It seemed like he didn't have anything to say and that scared him just as much as it did Tristan.

Tristan studied his son. The smooth angular jaw jutted forward, the scrawny adolescent shoulders set in a tense outline, the longish artistic fingers balled into tight fists by the boy's side. He was still a kid. He still looked like a kid, more or less. A tall, slim, olive skinned kid. Aiden had grown almost three inches last summer. His Adam's apple had started showing, bobbing over his throat when he spoke in that deeper, richer baritone that was sure to sound amazing once his voice stopped cracking every now and then. His face was still clean of scruff but in a year or less that would change. Maybe Aiden was still a kid, but not for long.

'It may seem like you don't,' Tristan said carefully, 'but some day you'll find your voice again and I'll be there to listen.'

Tristan watched as Aiden's index started picking his clenched thumb's cuticle. The skin there had a couple of scabs at different stages of healing, showing he'd had the nervous habit for a while. Tristan clamped his mouth shut. Pointing out signs of anxiety would only make the boy clam in further into his shell. He wanted Aiden to feel safe, not under surveillance. He wanted to sound caring, not condescending. He only had to figure out how. Going nuts over some picked cuticles wasn't the way to do this. Trying to get him to open up wasn't the way either. He had been banging his head against the same brick wall over and over again. Something had to give.

* * *

'I'm telling you, it's spleen rupture.'

'You think?'

'It is. I have a hunch.'

'You have a hunch because you're looking for a surgery to scrub in so you could keep avoiding going home to your teenage son.'

Tristan turned to give Rory an incredulous look.

'You gonna let him talk to me like that?'

Rory arched an eyebrow, gently amused at Jess' nitpicking about their friend's parenting distress.

'Is he lying?'

Tristan gave Jess a dirty look then sighed with resignation.

'You're lucky Allie is still too young to give you hell.'

Jess scowled and Tristan quickly put his palms up.

'Just saying. Never thought I'd have to deal with Aiden's teenage issues when he was five. And here I am eight years later, jumping at the chance to work extra hours only so that I don't sit at home wondering where he's at and what he's doing.'

'What do you think he's doing?' Rory asked conversationally, finishing her to-go extra large coffee and throwing the empty cup in the trash bin.

'That's the thing,' Tristan ran both hands through his hair and rested them behind his head, fingers intertwined. 'I have no idea. I don't know the names of his friends. Hell, I don't know if he's got any. He won't talk to me. He's missing for hours during off school hours while on weekends I hardly catch him at home anymore. I have no idea where he's at or what he's up to. I talk to his teachers but all I get is he's a smart enough kid, quiet but smart. That's all they give me. Quiet but smart. As if there's any actual opposition in that.'

'You worry he's up to something dangerous?' Rory asked, winning an incredulous look by both Tristan and Jess. The boy was a teenager, coming from a disturbed childhood. Being up to something dangerous sort of came by default.

'I...' Tristan looked up and blinked, his palms still linked behind his neck. 'I love him, you know?' he exhaled, his voice full of emotion. Tristan chewed on the inside of his lips, his look focused somewhere behind Rory. 'Children... they have that amazing ability to keep bad stuff out. Like, life happens but they do not let it get under their skin. There is that... innocence in a child,' he continued, 'you know? When you see a child who's just faced some of life's toughest crap, but it hasn't gotten to them yet. They don't see the world differently simply because life's pulled some big guns on them. But then...' Tristan licked his lips and looked down, his shoulders deflating. 'Then you look at your kid and he's not a little kid anymore. Things change. Neither of you wants them to, but they do and suddenly you don't know anything anymore. Something's gotta give.'

'When the adoption papers came through eight years ago, I thought hell with it, I can do this. I can raise a little boy because I've been a little boy once. It's gotta make it easier to relate, right?'

Tristan shook his head and started pacing in a small circle before them, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides.

'Sometimes I think, maybe it would be easier if I was raising a girl, maybe then the protective _I will slay dragons for you_ vibe would be taken the right way. He wants me to mind my own business but he is my goddamn business. And I will. I will slay dragons for him. Life robs children of their innocence, still they'll always be someone's little kid.'

Tristan paused and looked at them helplessly.

'Never mind,' he sighed. 'I still think it's a spleen rupture,' he said motioning towards the ER where they had left the patient for further scans.

'Jess, you were a broody teenager, what do you think?' Rory asked, turning to look at Jess.

'Don't look at me,' Jess huffed, putting his hands up, 'My childhood is hardly a good example. I was barely a survivor. I had to drag my mom's drunken ass out of cheap bars and didn't have a father figure to look up to. But Aiden's in a better position than I was back then, I guess,' he shrugged.

'I was such a sunny teenager,' Rory sighed pensively, 'I'm probably not a good example either. Whatever I say will sound privileged.' She tapped her forefinger over her lips, then looked up at Tristan again. 'What does Paris think? You're practically living together, she must have an opinion on the subject.'

'When does she not?' Tristan chuckled darkly and shook his head, looking somewhat sad. 'She insists I'm doing okay.'

Jess snorted.

'Paris insists you're doing okay? Man, you're in for the Parent Olympics.'

Tristan smiled wanly.

'I don't think she's being objective. She must be in a constant postorgasmic daze or something.'

'And that's my call to go,' Jess pointed towards the ER.

'You're doing good, Tristan.' Rory reached out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. 'I'm sure Aiden isn't doing anything bad. He probably just needs the space. He'll have his own battles, doesn't mean you're failing as a parent.'

Tristan ground his molars, swallowing once before giving her a nod.

'Thanks, Ror,' he said, not entirely convinced.

A good parent would probably have the faintest idea what their kid's battles were in the first place.

'I'm gonna go check if the CT scan results are up,' he gave them a forced smile and left.

Rory stood for a while, watching Tristan's retreating back.

'You coming?' Jess asked behind her.

She turned and joined him on his way to the ER. They walked in silence for a while before Jess gave her a sideways glance.

'You know something, don't you?'

A flush crept over Rory's cheeks. Jess knew her way better than Tristan did. Of course he would notice.

'What?'

He turned to assess her more closely.

'You do,' he concluded. 'I don't know how you know whatever it is Aiden is up to, but before Dugray pops an aneurysm, you might consider giving him the faintest clue as to what's going on with his son.'

Rory pressed her lips together, giving Jess an apprehensive nod.

* * *

**NOW**

'How long has he been like this?' Rory hissed, nodding at Tristan who was chopping wood behind the back porch with Jess leaning a couple of feet away with a beer, keeping Tristan company at a respectful distance.

Paris drank from her wine, her eyes on Tristan's back as she leaned against one of the wooden posts of the porch.

'If by like this you mean go I_ncredible Hulk_ on everyone who dares cross his path, two weeks. He had a fight with Aiden about that same time so go figure. Aiden's been giving him the silent treatment ever since.'

'You have any idea what they fought about?'

Paris sighed and twisted her mouth to the side pensively.

'I'm not sure the subject really mattered.'

'Oh.'

'Their relationship is changing. I think each of them is trying to fight it, in their own dense male way.'

'_Oh_.'

Paris shrugged noncommittally.

'But they'll work it out?' Rory asked, a bout of hope making its way in her voice.

'I guess we're gonna find out,' Paris nodded towards Tristan who approached them with wide angry strides, holding his mobile in his hand like it was some kind of grenade. The expression on his face was murderous.

'Everything okay?' Rory asked, making her voice sound more cheerful than Tristan's expression warranted.

'He's not picking up his phone,' Tristan snarled between his teeth. 'I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna take him to the gym and trash some sense into him. I've had enough. I've so had enough of his shit. Who the hell does he think he is? He's never gonna see it coming, I'm going back to New York and dragging his scrawny ass to every fucking shrink in a thirty mile radius until he gets out of his goddamn funk-'

Tristan continued muttering expletives under his breath, passing them by and storming into the kitchen, kicking furniture on his way around.

Paris and Rory followed despite Jess shaking his head no.

Tristan was getting more and more riled up, grumbling something about leaving the city being a terrible idea, when Rory's phone buzzed.

'It's mom,' she announced quietly, knowing the effect it would produce. Lorelai had volunteered to stay with Allie and the boys so the naughty parents (Lorelai's words) could go have a grown up weekend (again, Lorelai's words).

The room went still. Even Tristan stopped his kicking and muttering.

Rory picked up, her look roaming between Tristan's mad eyes and the rest of the group, leaning on various kitchen surfaces, watching her intently.

'Hey mom, please tell me it's Aiden making you call because his phone went dead or something. Tristan is worried sick over here,' Rory said into the phone, ignoring Tristan's expression at her definition of his mindset.

...

'What did Lorelai say exactly?' Tristan asked, his voice straining to stay calm.

Rory tucked a stray hair behind her ear, stepping from foot to foot.

'She said he told her he would be out for two hours and by the time he was out she saw he'd left his mobile on the kitchen counter.'

'I'm going back,' Tristan huffed, taking his car keys from the kitchen table.

'I'm sure he's all right,' Rory delivered weakly.

Tristan stopped and gave her a laser stare.

'How?'

'Eh?'

'How can you be sure? He's not picking his goddamn phone and I don't have a fucking clue as to where he may be at, so how can you be sure he's all right?'

'Watch it,' Jess stepped forward protectively, effectively blocking their face-off.

'I'm sure he's-'

'Rory, you don't know what you're talking about, please stay out of it,' Paris put an arm over Rory's shoulder as she passed her by and took Tristan by the arm, all but dragging him into one of the rooms in the back.

As they entered the room Tristan started pacing before the king size bed, looking like a wounded lion looking for a way out.

Paris leaned back against the closed door and crossed her arms before her chest, watching him.

'Way to flip out.'

'She was out of line,' Tristan muttered, anger steaming off him.

'Maybe. But you need to snap out of it.'

Tristan stopped pacing and gave her a look.

'I thought we were on the same page there. Didn't you tell her she didn't know what she was talking about?'

'I did. And now I'm telling you to snap out of it.'

Tristan opened his mouth to argue but his mobile flashed, Aiden's name lighting the screen. Before he could answer, Paris snatched the phone out of Tristan's hand, lifting it to her ear.

'Hey, Aiden, you okay? Yeah, it's me Paris.' Tristan made a step forward but Paris lifted her free palm to make him stop.

'Good,' Paris continued, giving Tristan an emphatic look. 'I'm glad you're okay.'

Tristan deflated visibly, his nostrils flaring as he sat down on the bed and rested his elbows over his knees, looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his head with both palms.

'Do me a favor and don't forget to take your mobile with you whenever you're out, okay?' Paris said into the phone. 'Why am I being so polite? What do you mean why am I being so polite? Yes, your father's here. No, I'm not gonna put him on the phone. Believe me, it's for the common good. Yeah. Just... bring your phone with you and pick up when Tristan is calling. Okay? Okay. Night to you too, Aiden.'

With that, the line disconnected. Paris put Tristan's phone on the nightstand and then moved to sit down beside him on the bed. They stood for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Paris was first to speak.

'You've been high-strung lately.'

Tristan kept staring ahead, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

'You've been high-strung and that coming from me must mean something,' Paris pressed.

She could literally see him swallowing back a bitter comment.

'If you wanna do this right, you have to find a way to unwind and put some order into your head.'

'You can't be my lifeline,' Tristan said, his voice scratchy. 'Not in this situation.'

Paris studied him quietly, watching the strained lines over his face knot even tighter.

'Okay,' she said after a while.

Suddenly, Tristan's head snapped to the side, his eyes nailing hers, the battle inside him obvious. His stubbly jaw was set so firm, the corners of his mouth were quivering. His eyes were turning a deep, stormy shade of blue, currents of distress washing over red-rimmed, watery irises. His hair was longer than his usual military cut and stuck out in different directions.

Paris lifted a hand to touch his arm but thought better of it and put it back down in her lap.

'Are you gonna seek help?'

'When we get back to New York, I'm getting Aiden to see a therapist.'

She nodded as if she had expected his answer.

'And you?'

'Me too. Should've done this years ago. For both of us.'

Paris nodded thoughtfully.

'Okay.'

Tristan stood up abruptly, as if his nervous energy was taking a physical form, making him restless.

'All I wanna do is get lost in you,' he hissed, his expression half accusing, half pleading.

Paris arched an eyebrow.

'Okay.'

Tristan rubbed both palms over his face, making a few nervous steps around the room.

'I... can't let myself feel loved when my thirteen year old son is feeling anything but.'

He shook his head, letting out a humorless chuckle.

'You don't understand, do you? You're too important to me to get caught in crossfire. I...' he stopped and raked his teeth over his lip. 'I can't have the two good things in my life fall apart at the same time. I need to compartmentalize in order to function. It's always been like this. I hit a rough patch, I work on it, I move on.'

He paused, studying her, trying to gauge her reaction.

'You don't like this one bit, do you?' he asked, an amused sparkle crossing his features for the first time tonight.

Paris jutted her chin forward, meeting his look square from her place on the bed.

'I don't,' she said. 'But I'm gonna respect your take on it.'

Tristan's features morphed into honest amazement.

'Thank you,' he murmured, his eyes intent on conveying more than he could express in words.

What he was really saying was he had always fought his battles alone. He was trying to do the right thing but he was a solo soldier, never knew how to operate with an ally on his side. Having her by his side made him feel distraught and confused. Like it was too much, in a way. And she was. In all honesty, Paris Geller was too much to handle. In more ways than one. But if anyone could handle her, it was him. He just didn't know it yet.

'At some point you're gonna need to be yelled at,' Paris said, standing up from the bed. 'You may wanna keep in mind I'll be around when that happens.'

She passed him by on her way out of the room, leaving him stare at her with his hands on his hips.

* * *

**TBC**


	13. A Good Place To Start

_A/N: To everyone reading this - thank you for being here, hope you enjoy the new installment! Don't be shy, leave a word :)_

**WARNING**: **Contains M(-ish) implications around the middle of this chapter, right at the end of the first part.** I'm wondering if what's there qualifies as M enough to warrant changing the rating to this story. Maybe I'm clueless but I'm really wondering what qualifies as M these days and does it change or does it go like that - once you're wondering if something's rated M, it's M. What do you think? If you have any opinions on the matter - don't hesitate, let me know (in a review or as a pm, whatever you're comfortable with). I'd love to know your thoughts (on anything you find thought-provoking, rating-wise or not... there's a lot of parenting stuff going on with Tristan, I'm curious what you make of it).

* * *

**ONE YEAR AGO**

'With your palm open,' Tristan instructed, taking her hand and prying her fingers open, 'don't close your fingers into fists or you'll hurt your knuckles. Okay, okay,' he chuckled as she started slapping his chest and shoulders with her palms open a little too energetically.

'And now if I close my palms against your throat?' Tristan asked, mimicking a choke hold. Paris tried to pry his forearms away but he shook his head.

'Now, that's not gonna work. Look, you weigh like - what, ninety pounds? You gotta seek the weakest point in the attacker's grip. The weakest point here are the thumbs. So you duck under, your head must go below my wrist-' he explained, moving her hands to his neck and then demonstrating getting out from her grip by ducking his head down and then to the side. 'Don't forget to keep your neck tight,' he reminded, tapping the veins of his neck before returning his hands around her throat. 'Now duck, head straight down and then back up so that it goes underneath my wrists. Come on.'

Paris did as he instructed.

'Beautiful!' Tristan cheered when Paris managed to get out of his grip successfully. 'See? You should concentrate your energy on the weakest point. Come on, let's do it again... Yeah, just like that!' he said as she managed to get out of his grip again.

Tristan took a step back and crouched a little so that they were closer to an eye level.

'Now what about if I come at you like that?' he said, taking hold of her upper arms. 'Say, at first I keep a respectable distance,' he continued, holding her firmly but without completely invading her personal space, 'What do you do?'

Paris tried to step back and get out of Tristan's hold but his grip only became tighter.

'See?' he said, 'That's what's gonna happen if you try to resist to an opponent who has a weight advantage over you and let's face it, only skinny twelve year olds don't have a weight advantage over you.'

Paris shot him an indignant look and tried to lift her hand to slap his shoulder but he had locked her in a firm grip continuing to keep her at an arm's length. Tristan's head was tilted to the side in what looked like amusement while she was battling with the fact that he was right.

'Are you gonna teach me what to do or are you gonna spend the rest of the training mocking my weight?' Paris grumbled.

Tristan gave her a beaming smile as if he had been waiting to hear that.

'Grab hold of my shirt and close off the distance,' he instructed, waiting for her to do so. She hesitated, licking her lips. Tristan rolled his eyes. 'Oh come on, Brezhnev and Honecker shared less personal space when they kissed,' he smirked.

'Did you just compare teaching me self-defense to the socialist fraternal kiss?' Paris asked, meeting his eyes disbelievingly. 'Jeez, surviving cancer was easier than enduring your sense of humor.'

Tristan gave her a wink.

'What do you know, I'm a very light-hearted rapist,' he said nonchalantly, his grip not loosening a tad. Then the smirk was wiped off his face and his expression got serious. 'Are you gonna take me down or not?' he arched an eyebrow, challenging her.

Paris huffed in frustration but pressed her lips together and gave him a nod.

'Okay, Leonid,' she said between her teeth, 'hit me with your wisdom.'

He let go and they took positions again, with him mimicking attacking her and her grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling him towards herself the way he had told her to.

'Now what?' Paris asked from under his chin, her torso pressed snug against his abs.

'Now you use the lack of distance as advantage to pull your leg back behind my legs and tackle me down.'

Paris tried to drag him down but Tristan was twice as large and he didn't budge an inch.

'You can't take me down by force,' he shook his head. Then he took her by the hips and nudged her a little to the side so that they weren't exactly face to face. 'You have to knock me off balance and for that you have to use my own momentum against me. So when I come at you like that-'

He took a step back and mimicked attacking her again,

'You can take me by the shirt, pull me further into yourself while stepping to the side and then pull your leg behind mine to trip me up.'

Paris tried again. They wrestled in what looked like some comic take on a couple who had trouble keeping balance while dancing.

'Don't exert yourself,' Tristan instructed, not one bit out of breath. 'Look for the weakest point in my grip, then use my momentum to your advantage...Just like that, just like that, and then push - _push..._ And he's down!' Tristan clapped from the floor as she managed to tumble him down. 'Beautiful!'

Paris panted, releasing her grip and taking a step back to rest her palms over her knees.

'We done?' she asked, hardly catching her breath, resisting the urge to spit over the gym wrestling mat.

'Just another one.'

'Okay,' she straightened up, 'show me.'

'Take a sec, you're hardly breathing.'

'You said you won't be easy on me,' she insisted. 'I'll be fine, just show me.'

'I said I'm gonna call the shots to your training no matter whether you like it or not. I'm telling you to take a moment and then we continue.'

They stared at each other until she finally relented. When it came to physical training, Tristan was the one who knew what he was doing, so she let him lead.

'Come on, come on, come on,' he urged while holding her wrists up, his legs mounting hers. 'Now twist - not this way but the other, so that your body becomes perpendicular to mine.'

She did, twisting and grinding beneath him, until she managed to find a weak point in his hold and used it to get out from under his grip.

'Beautiful!' he cheered as he stood up and offered her his hand to pull her up. Paris took it and got up from the floor, wiping sweat off of her forehead.

'Why do you say that?' Paris asked, narrowing her eyes.

'Say what?' Tristan frowned, taking the bottle of water from the ground and lifting it up to drink.

'Beautiful. You say that instead of 'well done'. Are you trying to sneak some self-esteem back into me?'

He finished drinking and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, offering her the bottle. She took it, her look still suspicious.

'What are you talking about?' he asked, looking clueless and slightly pissed.

'You say beautiful, why?' she didn't give up.

'I don't know,' Tristan shook his head, getting more pissed by the second. 'That's what came to mind I guess.'

'Really,' she muttered sarcastically, turning to walk away.

She felt him put a hand on her shoulder.

'Hey!' he said catching up with her, trying to turn her back towards him.

She sidestepped his grip, the way he had taught her.

'You know what,' Tristan licked a lip and looked to the side angrily before returning his gaze on her. He put his arms up as if showing surrender, 'for a smart person you have such a superficial mind frame.'

This got Paris' attention.

'_Excuse_ me?' she bristled.

'You don't find yourself beautiful, so suddenly the word is prohibited around you, huh? What if I find you beautiful?'

'Oh please,' she huffed.

'See?' Tristan pointed his index towards her, his eyes shooting daggers. 'That's your problem. You are the one who can't see below the surface, so don't you come telling me which word to use or not to use.'

With that, he strode off towards the locker rooms, mumbling angrily under his breath.

Dumbfound, Paris stood looking at his retreating back.

'What's the trouble in paradise?'a familiar voice asked beside her.

Paris turned to find Jess standing beside her, wearing his gym gear. She hadn't even noticed he had also come into the gym for an evening workout.

'What?' she asked, distracted.

'Just a moment ago you and Dugray were all lovey-dovey on the gym mat.'

'I don't remember being lovey-dovey,' Paris rolled her eyes, trying to look more pissed off than caught off guard. 'Ever.'

Jess shrugged,

'Last time I checked, Dugray was trying to have sex with you on the wrestling mat and you were trying to look like you were opposed to it.'

Paris turned her head to give him a death stare. Jess looked at her incredulously, seemingly amused.

'Did you not realize that was what you were doing?' he asked, looking only mildly apologetic.

Paris glared at him.

'We were practicing self-defense.'

'Whatever you kids are calling it these days,' Jess shook his head and left with a chuckle.

**...**

'Sometimes I feel like you're picking up a fight only to get me worked up.'

She kept silent. They were back at his place standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room. They had spent the drive home in silence, each of them getting worked up over the other.

Tristan gave her a questioning look. Paris shrugged.

'It's true, isn't it?' Tristan shook his head. 'I can't believe it.'

'I like to get you out of your skin,' she admitted. 'When you get like this, you are so passionate, I stop comparing.'

He blinked.

'Comparing,' he repeated. 'Comparing to... what?'

'Other women.'

'_Other women_? What other women?'

He was at a complete loss. This was getting ridiculous.

'All other women,' Paris made an indefinite gesture around. 'Tall women, short women, thin women, fat women, exotic women, plain boring women, _ all_ women.'

Tristan kept his eyes on her. His look was hard.

'You're insane.'

'I'm _jealous_,' she said a little sadly. 'I'm far from my best shape and you... well you're you,' she waved her hand in his direction with an eye roll, as if Tristan being himself was something obvious and self-explanatory, 'And I'm feeling insecure. That's why I'm looking for proof.'

'Unbelievable,' Tristan shook his head with an almost hysterical smile.

'It's pathetic, I know. I'm a cancer survivor who also happens to be a badass single mom and rock star surgeon - nothing should be able to make me feel insecure, right? Believe me, having all these conflicting feelings is such a pain in the ass, I would surgically remove them if I could.'

Tristan was still shaking his head and looked like he was torn between laughing out loud and yelling.

'Do you know why I lashed out on you back at the gym? Because I'm incredibly, painfully frustrated.'

Paris opened her mouth but he rose a hand to stop her.

'Sexually frustrated,' he clarified. 'I was there sitting on top of you and you were wiggling under me and I was so painfully hard I thought you might get puncture wounds by the time this training was over. Jesus.'

'What?'

'I can't believe you didn't feel it,' he shook his head in disbelief. 'I'm used to training and keeping my mind on track while doing so. I'm good with discipline. I can usually take care of a hard-on. But you turn me on,' he sighed, spreading his arms to the side. 'And it's hard to control myself when I'm around.'

'I... turn you on?'

'For the love of god, Paris, yes,' he huffed. 'You will soon put a couple of pounds on and start looking like yourself again, will it be easier for you to believe me then?'

'I...'

'Yes it will. And you know why? Because since you got sick, you've only been focusing on the surface of our relationship.'

She clenched her jaw but kept silent because... well, because he was right. She had treated him like he was the King of Chilton. Like she didn't know him at all.

'Outside of the gym mat, I don't like to fight,' Tristan continued, looking weary but still angry. 'With you it's hardly ever a ride in the park, but I won't be dragged into pointless fights only so that you can feel more confident in what I feel about you through blackmailing me for proof. If you feel insecure, you come and ask me, but do me a favor and don't question my motives when it comes to you.'

Paris glared at him with a mix between awe and shame and then a determined glint sparkled in her eyes.

'Are you still frustrated?' she asked, crossing the space between them until she was in his face.

'What?'

She pushed his chest and used his surprise to gain momentum, placing her hands on his hips and pushing him back until the backs of his knees hit the sofa. She pushed him down into a sitting position and without giving him time to react climbed to straddle him.

'Paris, what the-'

She caught his jaw between both of her palms, angling his face up.

'You know what turns _me_ on?' she asked, her thumb brushing his lips. 'You angry. When you get all bossy and condescending, all I wanna do is...' she leaned into him, her nose nuzzling his neck as she slid a hand down the soft hoodie covering his chest, pressing against his abs with the heel of her palm as her fingers slid under the elastic of his sweatpants, 'put my hands on you,' she finished, slipping her palm straight inside his boxer briefs.

He hissed as she closed her fingers around him.

'You can forget about your discipline,' purposefully slowly, she touched the tip of her tongue to his neck. His hips jerked in response making her smirk with satisfaction. 'You're safe with me,' she whispered, her lips brushing his ear as her hand slid and closed firmer around him. 'You can relax, I got you.'

'We need...' he said with his throat dry, 'need to take this slow.'

'I can go slow,' she whispered against his neck, leaving small butterfly kisses and sucking the skin in between. 'I can go as slow as you like,' she continued, pumping him agonizingly slowly.

'Fuck,' he let out a throaty sigh, resting back against the sofa, his will to fight with her finally over, giving in. 'You're gonna be the death of me.'

'No one here is dying,' Paris said, sliding off his lap to free him from his sweatpants.

'Pa... Shit.'

* * *

**NOW**

'The therapist said I need to be the parent and for that I need to stop acting like an older brother.'

It wasn't what Tristan said. It was the way he said it, though. Like he hated every single word.

'You don't like what the therapist said because you think the idea's preposterous or you don't like what he said because it makes you feel bad about yourself?'

Tristan looked to the side, his eyes focusing out of the window. He stood with hands on his hips and breathed heavily, nostrils flaring, looking like a pissed off dragon. Like an action movie hero mentally skipping though handgun options for his personal vendetta.

'I see,' Paris said calmly, leaning a hip against the kitchen table.

Tristan inhaled sharply and then exhaled. Like he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He frowned and rose a point finger, opening his mouth but then closing it again with a shake of his head. Like a gulping fish he stood there, his anger with the atrocious therapist giving way to a new feeling - the feeling of betrayal by his one and only advisor, his closest confidant.

With practiced patience, Paris watched his obvious distress.

Stiffly, as if recuperating from an unexpected blow in a friendly fistfight, Tristan made a couple of steps around the room before turning to face her, his expression twisted with defiance and agitation.

'You think he's right?' he asked. There was an edge to his voice, the question not so much a question as much as hurt accusation.

Unperturbed, Paris sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. She crossed her arms before her chest, as if she was just getting comfortable in order to watch a gig. She was taking a seat giving him time to unwind. Her face was calm, purposefully clear of emotion. No mockery, no judgemental scowl. She was simply waiting for him to let it out. And there was quite a bit to let out all right. He was just getting started.

'You do,' Tristan looked up at the ceiling, letting out a humorless laugh as he rubbed a hand down his face. 'You think he might be on to something.'

'So what do you recommend?' he sneered, 'That I finally snap out of it and quit the man-child act? Do you think I'm sidestepping responsibility as a father because I refuse to grow up? Do you think _I_ am the reason why Aiden can't handle normal conversation and is feeling progressively anxious and circled out as a teenager? Because all this time he needed a father and all he got from me was the older brother?'

He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring with hurt and indignation. The dragon had taken a stab to the heart.

'Don't you think I wanted him to get the father figure he deserves? That all I wanna be is family with him and you and Josh? I'm not the best option in the family department, I get that. But no one will love him, stick to him through thick and thin the way I will,' Tristan said with such conviction and fervor the corners of his mouth twitched. A vein across his temple was pulsing, his eyes turning into dark blue pools of madness.

Paris mashed her lips together and rested back in her chair, a perfect picture of composure in the face of an approaching typhoon.

'I may not be everything he deserves in the father figure department, but I'm the best he could get at the time,' Tristan vented on, his voice rising a notch. 'And he didn't have a happy carefree childhood all right, but he had a good one. Thanks to me, Aiden had a good enough childhood and the older brother drill worked well enough-' he paused before her with his hands hanging by his sides in tight fists, looking down at his shoes in offended exasperation. In and out, he breathed with careful precision, as if he might forget how to if he stopped paying attention. Like a fighter facing an immeasurably stronger opponent, he was doing his best to take the blows with dignity when he was obviously feeling far out of his league.

'Until recently. It worked well enough until recently,' Tristan added flatly, losing a battle with himself.

He didn't know the rules of this game.

Rules. In sports, there were rules. In military school, there were rules. If you knew the rules, you might not always win, but at least you knew what to expect. Life became predictable, of sorts. If you looked at medicine from an analytical point of view, you could easily see how it was a profession defined by rules - logical, with well set career goals and a pretty well-outlined career ladder. To an outsider it might seem high school jocks would be the last people to care about rules. But if there were rules, it was easier to know what was expected from you. Easier to belong. If there were rules, it was easier to know who you were.

In parenthood, none of that applied. You protected your son with everything you got. The world still found ways to seep in and find cracks in that shield. You tried to be someone so that when your son looked back at you they saw someone of worth. Someone to a aspire to, a role model to follow. But what you were really doing was trying to get your _son_ to be someone of worth. Your son. Not you. Because you've been well aware you were never gonna make it half as good if it weren't for your kid watching. How could you know who you were when there were no rules? All you were trying to do was look like you knew what you were doing with your life in front of your kid only so they would do something with theirs.

Paris nodded slowly. She studied Tristan, trying to decide if he was finished. When he didn't fall into another venting fit for a whole minute she decided he might. When he finally mustered up the courage to look up and meet her eyes, Paris leaned forward and spoke.

'It did work,' she said calmly, authoritatively. 'It did work pretty well when Aiden was a kid and, thanks to you, he did have a good childhood. Now Aiden is growing up, the situation is changing and the big brother drill doesn't work anymore,' Paris continued, holding his gaze. 'That's why you need to change the drill. In order for it to start working again.'

'Change the drill,' Tristan huffed with what little fight he had left in him.

It was... What if he couldn't? What if the older brother persona was all he would ever have to offer? Maybe Tristan didn't have it in him - that parenting, going through life doing right kind of thing.

How could he play this game if he didn't know the rules?

There were people like Paris Geller who made their own rules. In the face of a storm they fought relentlessly until they conquered it -like surfers finding a way to ride the waves even when they came tsunami-sized. Paris Gellers were kings and queens, and masters of their own fate. And then, there were people like him. Lost boys, Tristan Dugrays coming from borderline hateful households, running from their problems by living their life like it was an endless bachelor party. Lost boys who hardly filled their own shoes, still learning how to be themselves properly, let alone fill the role of responsible steady fathers.

Somewhere along the way, a lost boy had stumbled over someone precious. With that he found meaning, a greater purpose and that had changed the game, made him less lost in a way. At least he'd thought it had. Now he was trying to build a family with this someone and both their children but nothing worked according to plan. The plan was that love should be enough. Life had tried so many times to teach him love was almost never enough. Love was simply a good place to start.

What scared him, and it scared him beyond good measure, was the fact that hadn't he met a hurricane of a woman called Paris Geller, chances were he'd still be chasing after temporary fixes, distractions serving as means to run from what he felt uncomfortable with in his own life. Tristan used to call that _compartmentalizing_. But what he was really doing was slicing his life into thin meaningless pieces, cheap slivers of reality that would be easier to throw away one day. Staying unattached with his own life was the way he was used to living it. Because finding a temporary fix was easier than healing. There was that comfort in making the same mistakes over and over again. It didn't feel right but it felt familiar, it felt comfortable. This had been the drill. For so long, it had been the drill and it had become his default. What use was a Tristan Dugray in a world where thirteen year old boys needed someone to be their father? _Change the drill._ Did he know how? However, Tristan knew what a lost thirteen year old boy _didn't_ need. And it was another lost boy. Change the drill. Did he stand a chance?

'Yes,' Paris confirmed, as if what she was saying wasn't atrocious but was in fact the most natural thing in the world. 'You're gonna work on it until you get to a point where what you can give Aiden in the - what expression did you use,_ father figure department_ \- is enough again.'

Tristan was standing still, looking at her as if she was sharing a recent encounter with alien intelligence and her brief interaction with the aliens that foreshadowed an oncoming zombie apocalypse somewhere around the end of this weekend.

Paris sighed, knowing how Tristan always steeled himself for her critique. He always assumed she was going to dissect him with her lucky scalpel. Because she was this superwoman nazi mom and professional and he was - well, you know - _moron_.

Tristan Dugray wasn't used to being praised, period. But it applied especially to her. The only logical appraisal coming from her seemed to be total annihilation. Stupid boy. When would he finally start to listen?

'When is the last time you grounded Aiden?' Paris asked.

'What?'

'Or the last time you demanded answers from him,' Paris continued. 'The last time you told him you weren't putting up with his antics anymore?'

Tristan's forehead was split by deep worry lines.

'You call manhandling my son actual parenting?' Tristan asked, his expression one of disbelief. One would think Paris Geller wouldn't fall for the cliche picture of dysfunctional parenting where the parent forced their way over the child... right?

'Not physically,' Paris shrugged, not looking offended by Tristan's obvious shock. 'When you're the parent and he's the child you make the decisions, whether he likes them or not. It's your call,' Paris explained.

'I tried to talk to him,' Tristan reasoned. 'I tried to engage him, then waited, then tried to engage and talk to him again.'

'That's what a good, caring older brother does,' Paris said seriously. 'I guess there is even some term about it, something politically correct like creative collaboration between peers or whatnot. When that still doesn't work, decisions have to be made. And maybe an outside source can help. Maybe the kid needs to see a therapist, so you make your research and take that kid to see the best damn therapist you find, whether kid likes that or not. You make the decision and get the kid the help they need, not the one they want. Parenting is rarely politically correct. But a parent doesn't thrive to please, they thrive to do what's right even if that sits badly with their own ego. That's what a real parent does.'

Tristan's face was frozen into a peculiar mix of surprise and bafflement. Paris sighed.

'You sought help in a situation you saw you couldn't handle on your own. That's not pathetic. It's honest and it's brave. If you feel like you must wallow in self pity and toss blame around - you go ahead and do that. But you can also admit to making a grown up decision and own that.'

An older brother would have the luxury of saying _Okay I tried, it didn't work_. A parent couldn't. A parent would never relent. A parent would seek a way until a way was found. And that's what Tristan was doing.

'Whoa.'

Paris narrowed her eyes.

'What did you expect me to tell you?'

'That seeking help is for losers?' Tristan answered as if she were asking if the sky was blue, like that was the most obvious reply in the world.

She gave him a thoughtful nod.

'Why?' she asked.

Tristan blinked in disbelief.

'Because you are you? I mean, if you had to write _The Ultimate Guide On How To Find The World's Most Pathetic Moron,_ the book would be a one-pager and go with a mirror. And, jeez, I don't know - because you are the person who fought stage three cancer alone? How about that to seeking help in a stuck situation?'

Paris shrugged.

'I was too stubborn to seek help. Doesn't mean I didn't need it. I was just too afraid to admit that. Everybody needs help sometimes.'

'Very...' Tristan paused looking for the right word and licked a smirk off his lips '... mature of you to say.'

Paris arched her eyebrows and her smirk reflected his amusement. Over the last two and a half years, she had learned to try and look at things beyond her current circumstances. It was proving to be... therapeutic.

'Cancer survivors adopt an inexhaustible supply of wisdom,' she explained. 'Now I'm gonna go change into something sweaty and go for a run. You coming?'

'What?' Tristan blinked, sobering. Then gave her a nod. 'Oh. Okay. Yeah. Let's go for a run.'

Paris started for the stairs to her bedroom. She was a couple of steps up when she paused and turned to meet his eyes.

'Oh, and, Tristan? I didn't fight cancer alone,' she said seriously. 'I had you there, each step of the way.'

* * *

**TBC**


End file.
